


Random

by Kalium



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acting, Crack Treated Seriously, Detectives, Dubious Science, Established Relationship, F/F, For Science!, Friendship, Gen, Libraries, Loss, Metafiction, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo Lore, Radio, Storytelling, Television, Travelling Shovel Of Death, Writing, Zombies, living characters, stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalium/pseuds/Kalium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like thousands of characters every year, Random Idea #42 dreams of one day starring as the protagonist in a NaNoWriMo novel of her very own. It's not easy when you don't even have a name yet, but she's determined to try.</p><p>But when November looms and a friend helps her land a role, she gets thrown into more than she bargained for. Forced to team up with a surly inter-novel investigator, she ends up thrust into a dark plot involving the Travelling Shovel of Death, and discovers the fate of the novels that never made it to 50k...</p><p>We'll probably never find out where free shrimp dinners come from, though.</p><p>(Starring: a full cast of scientists, detectives, zombies, ninjas, pirates, robots, awful romance novel protagonists, trebuchets, malicious gardening implements, people with significantly anagrammed names, flying pets, wordcount validators, dares, and at least one oversharing talk show host.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bookish Hooligans

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! Thanks to everyone on the NaNoWriMo boards for encouraging me through this odd thing. Write a novel about the Travelling Shovel of Death indeed...
> 
> Quotes from No Plot? No Problem! belong to Chris Baty, without whom none of this oddity would be possible.

_Whether you noticed or not, from the minute you decided to write a novel in a month, the Central Casting wing of your imagination began contemplating contenders for the dramatis personae - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

"So... my name's Random. It's short for, uh, Random Idea Number Forty Two. I mean, I'm hoping to get myself a proper name this year..."

The character in potential rubbed her hands together and pushed a stray curl of bushy red hair from her face, before focusing her attention on the plush red curtains before her.

"I'd like to be a main character. I mean... I suppose we all want to be main characters. But anything will do! I think I'd like to be a pirate? Or maybe a princess? Maybe a pirate princess? That would be.. that would be cool! But anything you've got, really."

Random clasped her hands, and paused. Getting hold of a role was a matter of impressing yourself into the collective mindset of the novelling universe. Immediate feedback was somewhat rare.

Nonetheless, she couldn't shake the feeling she was losing it.

"Something with a name, though," she said eventually. "I'd like a name."

 

-

 

The feedback machine whirred and trembled before Random's eyes. Little cranks and pistons flew up and down. Through its glass casing, she could see a reel of paper tape, strung out over gears and wheels, inching in little increments toward its destination. And then, with no warning, the machine slipped into overdrive, whirring so fast she could no longer see it as anything more than a blur…

 _Ding!_  With a noise like a microwave announcing that last night's prepackaged dinner was ready, a light bulb switched itself on and a small slip of paper fed itself out of the front slot.

Random tore it off and read it.

"Awww.." she said.

Behind her, the door opened and the next hopeful entered to wait for his decision. He was dressed head to toe in black, his face entirely obscured except for his eyes. "Hey, no luck?" he said. "It's okay. There's plenty of October left. You'll find somewhere."

"Thanks," she said, managing a smile for him. "You too?"

Of course, the well-wishing on her end was just a courtesy. There was always room for another ninja in a NaNoWriMo novel.

 

-

 

"I could be a ninja," she mused to herself as she stepped outside. "That'd be just as cool as a pirate princess. I'd just have to get all this under the hood." She patted down her mass of red curls. It sprang back up again. On second thoughts, maybe being a pirate was a better idea after all.

She had only just opened the door when an unidentified projectile came whooshing past, blowing her hair up into an even more gravity defying mess. "Sorry!" called out a voice in the distance. "Didn't see you there!"

"Oh, it's you!" She gave the little group of trebuchet wielders a wave, and walked on.

Characters need somewhere to go, when they're waiting for the story to begin, and the NaNoWriMo Nexus was that somewhere. This close to November, the Nexus was busier than ever. Characters rushed by one another in a hurry, or walked in little groups, discussing the month ahead and the plots they'd be playing out. Nowhere was this throng of activity more visible than the main square.

The character crowds were out in full today. Most were human, like Random, or human shaped, but here and there could be seen a dragon, or a unicorn, maybe an alien or two, or any manner of assorted odd little creatures that were probably dares. A few wordcount bots sat in the sun, glittering in its light, taking their last few days of rest before the activity geared up. But in the square, there was room for all this. The tall buildings, drenched in golden October sunshine, full of little cafes and bookshops, gave way to a vast paved space. At its head was the library, its broad steps leading up to every novel that had been written in NaNos past, and every one that would be written this year, where the librarians would be cataloguing the genre index in time for the 1st. And in the distance, far away where the Camp lands lay, there was more still. The distant and misty peaks of the Midway Mountains loomed, the Sea of Inspiration an uncharted expanse at its foot, and even more impossible geography beyond.

A few more projectiles whizzed through the air - that last one, Random was sure, was a penguin, or at least something well disguised as one. Another chapter of the Trebuchet Club were practising, stationed by a fountain and comparing notes on trajectory and distance. _Maybe I could be a trebuchet operator?_ Random thought. Trebuchets were supposed to be in style, this year. She entertained the possibility of introducing herself to them, but decided against it. She'd promised to meet Neo after the audition. Maybe he'd have better news?

She was heading to the November Gardens, said to be the oldest part of the Nexus, there before the square and the city, before the mountains and the sea and the other, more impossible geography. Legend told that in the distant and murky past of 1999, a crew of hopeful, half formed characters had set off in twenty one novels to create the first NaNoWriMo, and that their combined efforts had created the Garden. Its external form had changed over the years, but these days it resembled a palm house, its roof formed from curved wood panelled with glass, and a hint of treetops inside. But that wasn't the real interior. To see that, you had to go inside and look for yourself.

She did that right now. She opened the door, and felt an odd shift in her vision, as if she had passed from one side of a pane of glass to the other.

A whole garden stretched out before her in all its autumnal glory, the bustle of the Nexus long since left behind. Behind her were walls, not the walls she had seen on the outside, but high stone things, full of cracks and ridges. Once, on a dare, she'd tried to follow those walls as far as she could go, but was forced to turn back when it became apparent they were mot going to stop. Not even the Midway Mountains could do that. Ahead of her, the park lands rolled on. Winding paths, bordered by wrought iron lamp-posts, cut through grass and trees. The Gardens had chosen its best colours today, and everything around her seemed as if it was on fire, in shades of red and orange and yellow, set off by that low October sun.

"Thanks," she said, managing another smile. A breeze rustled the treetops in reply.

Neo was sitting by the duck pond, which was something of a misnomer in that there were no ducks. The Garden had never quite been able to get the hang of ducks, but everyone had agreed that every good park needed a duck pond, and it was a fine duck pond indeed regardless of the absence of ducks. He was lounging on a wrought iron bench as if he owned it, one hand draped across the back, his spiked hair ruffled a little by the wind.

"Hey sis," he said. Characters don't have family unless they're written in, but that didn't mean they couldn't use the words. "How's it gone? Wait. Don't say anything…"

"Yeah, I don't need to," Random sat down beside him, and stuffed the rejection slip into her pocket. She knew he'd seen it, but she didn't want to say it. "Think the Garden's trying to cheer me up."

"Hey, there's time left," he said.

She was reminded of the ninja. "You mean one week in October."

"Hey, that doesn't mean anything. We can always just crash a novel. Loads of things don't get plotted until the last minute. This is NaNo, remember? Loads of things don't get plotted at all!"

"It'd be a lot easier if I had a name." Random drummed her fingers on her knee. "People take you seriously, with a name. You've got a name."

"Yeah." Neo picked up a stone and tossed it into the pond. It sank with a satisfying _ploop_ noise. "Can't say it's everything."

"Well, what with the late reopening this year…"

"Hey!" Neo sprang to his feet. "This isn't working. You're still glum! I know what we should do…"

 

-

 

It is a well known fact that fictional characters of any form do not obey the laws of economics unless it is important to the plot, and even then they will warp them to suit their own ends. Fiction may be a mirror held up to reality, but that doesn't mean it can't trim the boring bits.

The end result is that, in a place such as the Nexus, there may indeed be such a thing as a free lunch. Or at least a free shrimp dinner.

"I could stop by the Appellation Station," Random mused, as she poked at the little pink shapes on the plate before her. "You know, see if anyone's got any name ideas?"

They were hunched together at a two person table, by a wall covered in red and white life preservers and little plastic seashells. It had been the only one left. Either more characters than ever were down on their luck and needed cheering up too (the late start this year was having a dreadful effect on planning, so the rumours went) or Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners was going up in the world. Once you got over the fact that Bob himself was literally a bipedal, human sized shrimp, it was practically a second home. You just didn't ask too many questions.

"Names are overrated," said Neo. "Look at mine."

"S'good enough name," said Random, through a mouthful of shrimp and sauce. A passer by, on the lookout for a free seat, jostled her. "Mm, s'busy here, innit?"

"Doesn't get you everything."

"Aw c'mon, you… oh." Realisation dawned. "Aw, no, not you as well?"

"There's always tomorrow," he said. "I just figure you have to… be the main character." He stared up at the ceiling, a faint smile on his face.

"You always say that!"

"Yeah, cause it's good advice. Be the main character!" He waved his hand for emphasis, and ended up smacking it right into the face of a passing man.

"I'm sorry, my friend's an idiot!" Random blurted out, but it seemed to work, and he walked on. "Can you not do that?"

"You should still be the main character," Neo said. "Okay?" He leaned forward, chin resting on clasped hands, and when he spoke again it was hard to hear over the rattle of cutlery and the orders shouted across the room. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You and me are going to get into a novel, the best novel ever, and when it's all over… hold on." He sat back up, and fished through the pockets of his coat - a long, flowing affair that seemed to hold anything he ever needed - and, upon finding pen and paper, scribbled something and handed the scrap over.

Random unfolded it

 

_I O U One Free Shrimp Dinner._

 

"Yeah," she said, trying to stifle a laugh. "Think you're missing something here. They're free shrimp dinners? We don't actually pay for them? Because we're fictional characters and we don't actually have an economy?"

"Okay, give it back," he said, taking it from her hands and writing something else below it. She took it back when he was done.

 

_Even Though I Don't Have To Pay._

 

"Okay, I'll hold you to it." Random stabbed another shrimp with her fork and tilted her chair back, balancing on two legs. "I mean, even if I don't get to be princess of the high seas I suppose I can always-"

She was cut off by another knock to her chair, one that shook it off balance and left her flailing her arms out to steady herself. "Ow!" she yelled, as the chair fell backwards.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Both Random and the chair had survived the fall intact, so she got to her feet and straightened it back up. The shrimp hadn't fared so well. It had flung itself from the fork, tracing a neat little arc through the air that she'd seen out of the corner of her eye, and landed, in accordance with the laws of nature, narrative, and pale clothing, right on the front of her t-shirt. A trail of pink marked where it fell.

"Ew," she said, flicking it away. Something unseen, underfoot, snapped it up. "Guess it's laundry night now."

"Laundry night? _Laundry night?_ " Neo leapt to his feet. "This is October! Nobody does laundry in October! They let it pile up all the way through November and do the whole lot in December! That is what a real character does!" He stabbed at the ceiling with his hand.

There were more than a few people watching now, perhaps wondering if their free shrimp dinner came with complimentary free shrimp related cabaret. Random gave them an embarrassed little wave.

"Besides," Neo said, sitting back down, "we're characters, so we don't do things like laundry. Not unless it's plot relevant."

"I still need a new t-shirt."

"Okay," he admitted. "We'll finish up and go home and find a shirt. Hey, if we hurry up we can catch the end of Tildeworth!"

 

-

 

"Random! Get in here! They're going to have Mr Ian Woon on in a minute!"

"Really?" Random looked up from rummaging through a forgotten clothes drawer and ran into the main room. Neo was already sprawled out on the couch, lit by the faint glow of the screen.

"Yeah, come on, you'll miss him!"

"I'm only over here, you don't need to capslock on me." Random walked inside, and slouched down in the spare chair. It was a little worn down, but the cushions were just the right sort of worn, so that she sank into them with ease. "What're they talking about now?"

"Finishing up something on the rule change. You know, that thing about works in progress."

"Oh, that." It had been only a few weeks since the rules had been changed to allow works in progress to officially compete, and the debate had been fierce. As it was Random's first year, she'd kept out of it, but she knew it had been the cause of more than a few rows.

"And in conclusion," came the voice from the TV, "the new rules seem to be divisive. What do I think? Well, I'm just here to talk about these things, I think as long as I can talk, I'll be happy."

"Got that right," said Neo.

"Some people may say 'Oh, but Tildeworth! Should _you_ not have an opinion?' And perhaps they are right. But it is my role to present an unbiased and balanced commentary on the goings on within our Nexus, and so I shall. Incidentally, the person who stole my lucky pen from room 7a knows _exactly_ who they are, and if they know what is good for them they will return it to its rightful position _as soon as they are able to._ "

The screen, marked by a familiar rainbow coloured Viking helmet logo in the corner, showed a familiar figure sitting on a smooth curved chair in a light-filled studio. Tildeworth was a short woman, fond of floral patterned dress shirts. Today's was white, laced all over with little blue vines. She had fluffy hair that made her resemble a spaniel, light brown and greying a little at the temples, but she never looked old, not to Random's eyes. Insofar as fictional characters do not have an age unless written with one, trying to work out Tildeworth's was an exercise in confusion. But what struck the viewer most of all was her voice. It was several sizes too big for its owner, as if the voice had been there first and had been stuffed into the first body it could find. It was barking and commanding, and belonged to someone who could, with no effort at all, pronounce things in _italics_.

She was currently talking about drinks.

"But viewers," she said, "a crisis is looming, a large and terrible crisis, of the sort I would apply a long and detailed metaphor to were I the sort to apply long and detailed metaphors to things. It is a crisis of _dreadful_ and _epic_ proportions. Viewers, I am out of tea. If you could send some, that would be so kind.

"And now, the results of yesterday's quiz! In order, they are: the moon, the other moon, an elephant, yes, no, yes but only on a Thursday, _no no no no NO dear Chris Baty himself what were you thinking_ , and the blue whale. Congratulations to everyone who played along.

"And now, I'd like you all to welcome a very special guest! You might know him as the president of the Trebuchet Club, but we mostly all know him for his career, his significantly anagrammed name, and his unbeaten death scene record. Will you please welcome to the studio tonight, Mr Ian Woon!"

The camera panned back, and, to an extended applause… _somebody_ walked on stage. It had to be Mr Ian Woon, because Random had no idea what he looked like. Even when she was looking right at him, her mind refused to fill in the details.

"Welcome, welcome!" said Tildeworth. "Welcome to the show! Please sit down."

"Thankyou," said Mr Ian Woon. (He was definitely talking. Random had heard him.)

"So you've had a very interesting career," said Tildeworth. "Tell me, does this… effect… cause you any problems?" She waved a hand in the air.

"Oh, not at all!!" said Mr Ian Woon. "It's only here that it takes effect, after all. When I'm in a novel everyone can see me just fine. I just look different each time, you see."

Random supposed that viewers all over the Nexus were trying to do what she was now, staring at the screen and tying her brain in knots in an effort to figure out just what he looked like. She could see a little. He was human, male, probably Asian… but beyond that, he eyes slipped away over and over again.

"Yes, you've been in a lot of novels, right?" said Tildeworth. "You must have been in hundreds."

"Thousands, maybe," said Mr Ian Woon. "I admit I've lost track, so it's no wonder I don't have a defined appearance."

"I bet. Is it ever difficult? How do you manage to be in so many novels at the same time?"

"Trade secret! But yes, November keeps me busy."

"Hah! Anyone would think you were in two places at once! But that's impossible." Tildeworth turned to the camera. "Incidentally, I would like to take the time to remind all viewers that unauthorised backups are _dangerous_ and we do not in any _way_ recommend the practice of such. Definitely not." Turning back to Mr Ian Woon, she returned to the cheery interviewer voice. "So, are you worried about being killed off so many times? It sounds harrowing. Do you ever feel that's all you're ever used for? I know it's tradition, but is it not hard to cope?"

"Honestly? It's sometimes annoying, being killed all the time," said Mr Ian Woon. "But it's not too bad. Sometimes you're in a novel and you think… 'oh, do they just want a bit of extra wordcount because my name is three words instead of one?' And then they kill me, because that always bumps up the count. But I've gotten used to it. It's the mark I make on the world, I think. And it's not all about dying. I've gotten some great scenes. Sometimes I'm even a main character. Or sometimes I'm not, but I'm a favourite character."

"Is there a difference?"

"Of course! Sometimes you're a main character, and that's a great thing to be. But sometimes, even if you're not, you get the feeling the story loves you. It winds around you in ways you never expected. That's what I love most about November. I don't know what's going to happen. Even the dying's interesting when you don't know what's coming."

Random stared at the screen in silence.

"Have you had any interesting deaths, then?" said Tildeworth."

"I've had a lot of run-ins with the Travelling Shovel of Death," said Mr Ian Woon. "But who hasn't?" There was a round of laughter from the assembled and unseen studio audience. "But I would say the strangest death I've ever had was when I was killed with a peach."

"How do you get killed by a peach?"

"That's a long story!" said Mr Ian Woon. "But maybe I'll tell it some time?"

"I hope you will. So, moving on, can we expect you to be at the kickoff party on the 31st?"

"Well, I am the guest of honour," said Mr Ian Woon, "so let's hope so. Unless I'm being killed again. You never know with the new rules!"

"Oh, let's not go there," said Tildeworth. "But I'm sure we'll all have a great time, right?"

"Of course!" said Mr Ian Woon. "I'll be there at midnight… of course not for long, as I'll probably be killed as part of an opening scene somewhere. Nothing starts a book like a good murder scene. But whatever happens, I can assure you I'll be there."

"Thank you very much, Mr Ian Woon," said Tildeworth. "And I'll see you there too. Mr Ian Woon, everyone!" She shook his hand to the sound of more applause, and the lights dimmed.

"Viewers, friends, everyone," said Tildeworth. "It's been a long October, so far. In some regards, it has been a very short October. But in others, long. Of course I suppose that is how time works here, so perhaps I should not be so surprised. One thing about time is for sure - that's all we have time for, on the show today.

"Join us tomorrow when we find out just how much yarn it takes to knit a sweater for a giraffe, as we begin our community-wide drive to be kind to giraffes. Because we should. Be kind, that is. To giraffes, and to everyone. Yes, even you, though I have my eye on room 7a right now.

"Stay tuned for _Mundane Activities… IN A STEEL CAGE OF DOOM!_ But from all of us here at the Tildeworth Hour… etcetera etcetera, bombshell, thank you and goodnight!"

 

-

 

"Thanks, everyone! Thanks Vicki, thanks Jeff," Tildeworth bent down and shook hands and paws with a small neon pink stone armadillo who was currently engaged in rolling away one of the cameras. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, thankyou," said the armadillo. He moved on with a jerking motion, each step accompanied by the scrape of rock on pink rock, and his voice sounded like gravel. "D'you hear? I got a novel offer today!"

"Really? That's great!"

"I'm a dare, y'know," said the armadillo. "Sure plenty of stories will be lining up t'use me. Don't know how, I mean, but I'll know soon enough."

"So does that mean you'll be leaving?" said Tildeworth.

They stepped around one of the electricians, a fire breathing, dragon winged kitten currently engaged in unplugging one of the floor length cabled by batting it about the studio floor.

"Nah," said the armadillo. "Had some good times here, and t'stories might still edit you out. Then where d'you go?"

"You're welcome here," said Tildeworth. "Any time."

It was dark outside, by now, and the sun had left a cool, star-strewn, double-mooned sky in its wake. When Tildeworth exhaled, she let out a trail of mist that vanished into the air. November was on its way.

And she loved November, she really did. As one of the Personifications of NaNoWriMo, November was etched deep into her very self. But on nights like this, sometimes it was the only respite before the next show, the next blog post, the next video. Even a Personification needed a personal life.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and tapped the first number to come up. It ran for some time before a voice on the other end said, "Cedilla? That you?"

"Nobody else, Sue!" She hugged her free arm around her body. "Hey listen, I got out early tonight. How about dinner somewhere? Fancy the Warm Onion again?"

"Cedilla, I'd love to. But it just is that…"

"…Yes?"

"I can't. It's one of those nights."

"Oh." She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice as she looked at her feet, but she tried, she did try. "Do you… do you need me there?"

"No, I am always…" But she faltered. "You are going to come home anyway?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. No, I quite believe I _know_ I am. You know I worry about you, don't you?"

"I do," said the voice on the other end. "I know something else, too."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I know that I'm glad you do."

 

-

 

Deep in the wilds of a fantasy novel, begun early in October, an unnamed character was having a very bad night.

He didn't want to complain about it. It wasn't in his nature to complain. At least, he didn't think it was. But he was a farmboy in a quiet town where nothing ever changed, and that was the problem with stories. You got rewritten. Everyone knew it happened - it was part of being a character, after all. So now he was a nameless farmboy in the middle of nowhere, and wasn't going to be the Chosen One, which made it worse. He was turning into a complainer and all he got out of it was being an extra. It was bad enough that people were already giving him trouble over his novel starting early. It wasn't his fault! He was just part of the production, as Farmhand Number Six, or something like it. It hadn't been his idea to start early.

He wished there was someone to complain to.

Worse still, he had the sneaking feeling that he was in a scene.

He could feel the story tugging at him, trying to drag him into the narrative. He'd never been in a novel before, but he'd heard about the stories. If they wanted you, you followed, right?

Maybe he'd get to do something, at least.

He'd strayed far from town, and he was fast learning the first rule of night in a setting without electricity: it was dark. Not the dark of a lamp-lined street, but the real thing, blackness all around, and nothing more than a sky filled with more stars than he'd ever thought existed. His feet were sore from running over fallen branches and stumbling in unseen ditches and hollows.

He held still. Twigs crunched underfoot, but this time it wasn't him.

"Hello?" he said. Maybe it was one of the minions of the Dark Emperor Rawnimoon. Wait, was he supposed to know about the Dark Emperor Rawnimoon, or didn't anyone find out at this point? He wished he'd bothered to read the synopsis earlier. But the story was pulling him. This was what the story was meant to feel like, wasn't it?

There was a man, ahead. Perhaps it was a man. He could see nothing more than a lone, tall figure, shaded against the stars.

"Are you lost?" he said.

The man didn't move. Something behind the unnamed character did.

It didn't make a sound, but as he lay on the forest floor with his consciousness fading into the blackness all around, his last thought was that it felt an awful lot like a shovel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Include a pink stone armadillo in your novel" is a longstanding dare, and so are the dragon winged kittens. I don't know who it responsible for either, but thanks, unknown people!


	2. Established: 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random and Neo's luck takes a turn for the better, and the Nexus gets its party spirit on.

_If all of these [plot] questions sound suspiciously familiar, it's because one of them (coupled with the all-important "What would happen if we added an orangutan to the mix?") has driven the plot of nearly every movie you've ever watched and every book you've ever read. - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

Daylight streamed in through a crack in Random's curtains. It crept across the bed, until it fell over her face, waking her up with sudden brightness.

There was something she had to do, something unrelated to the dream she'd been having about rubber ducks. Her mind snapped to attention - more role hunting.

"Hey Neo, you up yet?" she yelled. There was no response, and when she hammered on his door (labelled 'You Must Be At Least This Awesome To Enter') there was no response.

He must be gone already, she decided, as she gulped down a glass or orange juice. Time to set off without him, then. Be the main character, whatever that meant.

But first, she needed fresh clothes. So she went back into her room, and reminded herself that one day, she might bother to clean it. Well, the clothes strewn about the place were clean, just disorganised.

Her rummaging led her to something plain, white, and inside out. When she pulled it right side, she found it surprisingly uncreased for something that had spent any length of time on her bedroom floor. It also wasn't plain as she'd thought. On the front, printed in dark blue letters, were the words:

 

NANOWRIMO

ESTABLISHED 1999

 

 _Must be one of Neo's_ , she thought. She'd never seen him wearing it, but it certainly wasn't hers. None of the original twenty-one would be leaving their shirts all over her floor. Neo certainly wasn't one of them, but that mustn't have stopped him. Well, he wasn't going to miss what he'd left behind. She pulled it on, and went in search of breakfast.

 

-

 

When she stepped outside, she realised she'd woken up a lot earlier than she thought. Even the square was practically deserted, except for a few early risers lounging on the library steps or crossing its expanse in small groups.

"I could look for a bunny," she said to herself as she sat by a fountain - the same one that the Trebuchet Club had been practising by only the previous night. "Maybe it'd like me." But there weren't any small, fluffy shapes in the square today. Maybe it was time to go back to the auditions. "What d'you think?" Out of lack of anyone else to talk to, she was addressing her own ripple distorted reflection.

She didn't expect a reply, but she was sure someone had just called "Randooooooooooom!"

"Did you just-"

No, there were footsteps, fast ones, and getting louder all the time. She looked up, only to see-

"Random! Look what I got! Looook!"

"You idiot, I nearly fell in!" She splashed a spray of water in Neo's direction. "Okay, I'll cave. What've you got? You found something?"

"Nope! Two somethings!" He flicked the water from his face and pulled two slips out of his pocket. "One for you, one for me. It's not an MC job and we won't be getting names, but you can have the one where you don't die."

"You got one for me?" She could feel a dizzy surge of energy running through her body, and she steadied herself on the fountain's edge. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise!"

"Don't think I can't land my own role!"

"Ohhh, so you don't want them?" He held them in the air.

"Yes I _do_ want them, jerk!" She tried to grab them, but he was taller, and all he had to do was hold them out of her reach and tell her again it was surprise and she'd find out soon enough. "But I want to know noooow!"

"Hmmm… no. Not telling." And with that, the tickets vanished into one of Neo's myriad pockets, and he tore off across the square at top speed. "You'll have to find oooout!"

 

-

 

He never did tell her, no matter how many times Random threatened to keep poking him in the shoulder.

The last few days of October wore on, ticking away, each one a step in the staircase to November. Time, as Tildeworth had observed, did not always work in the Nexus. It flexed and stretched and squeezed itself in accordance to its own whims and the hopes and desires of all those within its flow. It was a phenomenon familiar to anyone engrossed in a good book, or trapped in the endless abyss of a dull afternoon as the clock inches its way toward evening as slowly as it can manage, but within the Nexus, it was a perceptible force beyond that. Some might call it quantifiable, if it would ever behave long enough to be measured.

But even time in the Nexus obeys rules, and October was approaching, sometimes in bursts and sometimes in crawls, but always coming closer. There was no mistaking the buzz of excitement as November became more than just a distant date on the calender. Characters hugged and congratulated one another over roles gained, or gathered to discuss crashing a novel with such force that the story would have to grab hold of them and bend to their whims. Some characters pored over extensive notes, while others readied to take their chances in the wilds with nothing but the proverbial bottle of water and a change of underpants. But there could be none more taken by the spirit than the Personifications. The Pep Talker, a brother of sorts to Tildeworth herself and a rival as well, set up shop in the square, shouting words of encouragement over his megaphone to the assorted crowds. The kindly old Keeper of the Dares handed out her charges to anyone brave enough to take them on. Even the mysterious and unknowable Validator, amongst the oldest of the Nexus' inhabitants and master of the wordcount bots, could be seen drifting amongst the towers in a dark haze.

November was three days away. Two days. And then, after some deliberation, one.

 

-

 

The gates opened, and characters poured in to a square filled with stalls and delights. The primary moon was bright in the sky, the second one hiding from sight. Random could barely see above the crowd, so the familiar shape of the square was obscured and blanketed, transformed into something new and exciting. Midnight was upon the Nexus, and soon the novels would begin.

Random and Neo didn't have to be there until the morning, thanks to their secondary character status, but that only meant more time to enjoy the show. Neo strode above most of the human crowd, his coat flowing behind him even in the absence of any wind. Random had stuck to wearing her found shirt. "It's lucky," she said, when he asked her about it and where it had come from. "I had it when you found that role. Which you still won't tell me about!" He didn't remember it either, but he had so many t-shirts that he'd probably forgotten about its existence. (His own current shirt read "My Parents Went To Save The World And All They Brought Me Back Was This Lousy T-Shirt" with utter disregard for the fact that he hadn't been written with any, world saving or otherwise.)

They wandered through the blur of lights and people, stopping off at a stall to grab a pair of permapersimmon shakes, Random's favourite. Her nails, painted in a neon shade of blue, shimmered in the dark, her one concession to the night. ("You probably won't need that tomorrow," Neo had said, but it was midnight - some things you just had to honour.)

"Ugh, my pockets are getting full," she said. "Give me a second, would you?" They were walking by a one of the fountains again, so it wasn't hard to find a spot to sit down as she rummaged through them. "Why do people hand these out anyway?" It is a law of nature that any large gathering attracts people with cards and flyers, ready to pounce on those too polite to get out of the way, and her pockets were full. "Plot Doctoring? 2 for 1 night at Club Ack!? I go there all the time anyway! What's this? S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation and Detective Agency?" But she wasn't one for littering, so she settled for folding them a little more neatly so they fit better into her jeans, and went back to the cool sweetness of her permapersimmon shake. "I hate junk. Do you think main characters get junk mail?"

"Main characters get whatever they say they get!"

"Yeah. Thought so."

 

-

 

"Welcome, everyone, to the NaNoWriMo 2014 Midnight Kickoff Party!"

A cheer drowned out the voices of anyone left talking. Fireworks sprang into the air and burst in flares of white and pale blue, streaking downward to the ground in trails of light. A broad stage, erected the previous night, filled the whole western end of the square. Spotlights switched on, illuminating two figures entering from either end. Tildeworth and the unknowable form of Mr Ian Woon met in the middle, shook hands, and stood by the shared microphone to deafening applause. Crowd members cheered and waved banners in the air, some standing crammed up by the stage, other seated or standing on fountain edges and terraces further away, some flying, some hovering with complete indifference to gravity. Random and Neo had found that their spot by the fountain gave them a perfect view, so Neo sat relaxed, while she stood beside him to better see over the heads of the crowd.

"Welcome everyone, again," said Tildeworth, her voice amplified all around the square. "I hope there's enough space for you all out there. I do apologise if not, but some of you will remember that year we tried hosting the party in the Gardens. We did not accurately predict the influence of so many minds on the local fields, and well... it was a disaster."

(Random hadn't been around that year, but she'd heard rumours.)

"But in the past few years our tech team have been making great advances in not inducing massive Day One bottlenecks. So let's give a big thanks to all of them!" Another wave of applause rolled across the square. "And now, as midnight approaches, let me hand over to my good friend, Mr Ian Woon!"

"Thankyou, Tildeworth," said Mr Ian Woon. "I'll be brief, since I'm scheduled for six death scenes scheduled in the next hour."

"Busy, hmm?" said Tildeworth.

"Oh, it's upon course for me," said Mr Ian Woon. "Now I'm sure a lot of you have novels to be at during midnight, yes? Can I see a show of hands?"

"Dear Mr Ian Woon, do not forget our guests who do not _have_ hands!" said Tildeworth. "I _do_ apologise for my friend's lapse there. Please may we see a show of whatever appendages you have? Thankyou."

"My apologies," said Mr Ian Woon, as a display of hands, wings, claws, and various other limbs rose amidst the crowd. "I know you're all going to be as busy as myself tonight, so I'd like to remind everyone to be orderly and patient, and that exits to the library will be kept open. And of course best of luck, and I hope you won't be killed off."

"But if you are, you're in very good company," added Tildeworth.

"Of course," said Mr Ian Woon.

"I might add that we're all, as you might say, pantsing this speech?" said Tildeworth.

"That's the word!" said Mr Ian Woon. "But let's all take a moment to think of what that means. Some of you will be spending time in carefully plotted novels. Some of you won't have a clue where you're going. Now I've spent time in both, and they all have their strengths and drawbacks. It can be very comforting to know exactly where you're going and what you're doing. But for those of you who don't, remember that even if you don't know what will happen to you tomorrow, what will happen to you in the next second even, that's no cause to worry! However you embark on it, this journey will take you to all sorts of exciting places. So the best I can say to you is good luck, and remember whatever happens to you, it's something that never would have happened if you didn't set out. That could be good or bad, but in the end... it happened."

"Great speech!" said Tildeworth. "Perhaps we should have you as the resident Pep Talker instead of, shall we say, certain other people. But enough on my brother! It seems to be almost midnight."

"It is!" said Mr Ian Woon.

"Are you all going to join us in the countdown?" said Tildeworth.

"Yes!" chorused the crowd, Random's voice lost in it depths.

"Everyone make way for those of us who have to be gone at midnight!" said Tildeworth, "and that includes my friend here. I can feel the clock ticking. Can you?"

"Not particularly," said Mr Ian Woon.

"Hmm, really?" said Tildeworth. "Must be me. Here it comes, though. Count down with me. Ten!"

"Ten!" repeated the crowd.

"Nine!"

"Eight!"

"Seven!"

"Six!"

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

"Midnight!"

A gong sounded out through the square, so deep and loud the fountain rippled in its wake and Random felt sound waves enter her body through her feet. A fresh burst of fireworks launched themselves into the air, in an even more extravagant and complex display than before. Already there were others around her weaving their way out of the crowd and up the distance library steps. November had arrived.

 

-

 

"You're not staying?" said Mr Ian Woon, as he and Tildeworth descended into the relative calm that was the backstage stairs.

Tildeworth looked back at the stairs. From the stage above emanated the muffled sounds of music as the first of the night's bands took to the stage. "Sue has never been one for these sort of events. I worry about her. You know why."

"Yes, I do," said Mr Ian Woon. "Listen, if there's anything I can do..." He stopped in his tracks, extending a hand in her direction. "I know it may not be worth much, but you two are my friends..."

"I know," said Tildeworth. "You're very kind. I'm glad you're our friend, but don't you have novels to be in? Murder scenes to star in, you know?"

"Yes, but only as long as you're okay!" he admitted.

"Do you ever worry about things?" Tildeworth looked all around the temporary, dimly lit cavern, so close to the outside world and all its noise and light, yet so far and sealed away.

"I worry about lots of things," said Mr Ian Woon. "I worry about whether people will like me or if they think I'm overused. I worry about stories not ending well. There are lots of things to worry about, but if I did, I wouldn't go anywhere. You are doing something nice, aren't you?"

"Of course, dinner... I promised Sue dinner tonight. I'm cooking!"

Outside they parted, and she watched Mr Ian Woon walk up the broad library stairs, trying his best not to be mobbed by hopefuls. When he was gone, she set off for her own home, and dinner, and a quiet night in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On permapersimmons.](http://www.wikiwrimo.org/wiki/NaNoism)
> 
> Yep, Neo's t-shirt is another dare. Thanks again, dare thread people!


	3. Don't Try This At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random and Neo finally make it to their novel, and things get a tad more scientific. And a tad more post apocalyptic. Also, there's zombies.

_Here it is: Day One. We're standing together on the precipice that overlooks the vast, uncharted territory of your novel. It's quite a view. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

If there is one thing in the world that fictional characters are not exempt from, it is the awkward waking up scene. There is simply too much plot and word count potential to let such a thing go to waste. Many good characters have experienced a hazy return to consciousness and the questions it brings. Who am I? Is this my bed? Okay then, whose bed is it? And what in Chris Baty's name is this plastic Viking helmet doing here?

Random got to the second question before concluding that this was her own bed, there was nothing to worry about, and there were no stray items of anachronistic headgear in the immediate vicinity. This was good for a few moments of relaxed if not headache filled waking up as the sunlight crept across her face. After they had passed, though, she had the sneaking suspicion there was somewhere she needed to be...

Of course, the novel! She crept out of bed and made her slow, still decaffeinated way to the kitchen, where Neo was waiting.

"Morning," he said. "Still not going to tell you what we're doing, if you were going to ask."

"Shut up and give me a coffee."

"Sure thing, princess," he said, dodging a slow swipe from her hand. "What do you fancy?"

"So long as it's coffee, I don't care." She settled herself in by the kitchen island. Behind her, the delicious scent of roasted beans arose. "How long do we have?"

 

-

 

"Long enough for a good breakfast," turned out to be the answer, and a good thing too, because Neo had assured her there might not be much to eat when they got there. "First no nailpolish, now no food?" Random said. "What sort of a story is this?"

That was how she and Neo found herself on the library steps, part of the flow of hopefuls on their way to their respective novels.

The library dominated the square's skyline, but only when she stood at the foot of its broad stairs did she see how vast and imposing it really was. Several stories high, fronted by a vaulted archway, it loomed above all. Even the steps themselves made her feel tiny, each one taking a couple of strides to cross before the next. The dark wooden doors, carved with the helmet and shield emblem of NaNoWriMo and the older symbols of NaNos past, were flung open to let in the crowds.

Inside, she felt tinier than she ever had in her life.

Dark wooden shelves rose underneath a domed glass ceiling that let in golden autumn sunshine as it fell in mote-strewn shafts to the floor. People mingled and chatted, and all around them were flickers of white light, darting from shelf to shelf and coalescing into humanoid shapes that served to gather and herd the characters. "Are those... librarians?" said Random.

"I'd bet on it, yeah," said Neo.

"What do we do, talk to one?" said Random. But before they could do anything, one of the librarians answered that question for her. It crackled like a tiny bolt of lightning, before assembling itself before them into the shape of a glowing man wielding a book.

"Please state the nature of novel," said the librarian.

"I hear this bit's a right pain," hissed Neo in Random's ear. "Here you go!" He produced the two tickets from the depths of his coat with a flourish, and brandished them at the librarian. Random, looking closely, could see little sparks jumping from the librarian's fingers to her friend's.

"Hmm, I see," said the librarian, handing the tickets back. "Right this way."

"Where are we going?" said Random. But Neo just shrugged. Random fell silent. She had never, ever been in a place where Neo didn't know the answer, or at least couldn't provide a confident bluff.

She distracted herself by trying to read the book spines as she passed by, but not one of them was in a language she knew, if there was anything written at all. The librarian led them deeper and deeper into the shelves, but instead of showing them a book, he brought them to a door. "This one should be yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I have places to go." And with that, he was gone, zipping back through the bookshelves as a flash of light, bouncing from spine to spine.

Random had spent some time before in the little bookshops that dotted the back streets of the Nexus, far away from the bustle and glitter of the main square. They were the sort that consisted of rather more space than should by all rights fit into such a small property, as if it had been rolled up around itself in order to fit in the maximum amount of dusty, faded old books. And there would always be a proprietor, maybe an old man, or maybe a man who looked young, but was not. This, she thought, looked like exactly the sort of door that he would walk out of. It was sunken deep into the wall, so low even she would have to duck and climb down a couple of stairs to get inside.

Neo tested it, and it swung open. "Come on, let's see what's out there!"

The first thing Random was aware of, as she followed him, was the heat. Not even on the hottest day in the Nexus had she felt such warmth and dryness. The second was the light, from a harsh sun high in the sky, obscured by no clouds. Dust rose under her feet as she stepped forward, and then sank to the ground, as if the heat had sapped all its energy. She shaded her eyes and looked ahead. They had exited from a falling-down shed, its timbers bleached and crumbling under the sun's rays. Ahead there lay a town, lost amid the desert sands, all patchwork wood and boarded windows.

"Welcome," said Neo, "to a town with no name. Not any more. Not since... the incident..."

"What incident?" said Random. Sweat was already beginning to run down her forehead. "Is it a get inside as fast as you can sort of incident? A get inside where there is air conditioning as fast as you can sort of incident?" She could see wires roped from building to building, and could only hope that the inhabitants - if there were any - had their priorities straight. _Maybe I could fix some up,_ she thought. _Maybe…_ The thought ground to a halt right there. She'd never considered doing anything like that before.

Something was in her head. But she could still use a cold breeze. "I'm going."

"Whoa, whoa, not so fast! You can't run in there dressed like that!" Neo ran to overtake her, skidding to a halt in front of her. "You've got to get in character! Show this novel what you are!"

"Okay, so what am I?"

"Got to get yourself rewritten."

"Rewritten? Is that what happened to me when I... hey, what's going on?" Her arms were bare no longer, her t-shirt and jeans covered up by something long, and white... and more than that, ideas flowing ever faster into her head. She _could_ get something up and running, if she could find a generator lying about. But she had a job to do. Something to investigate, to track down, to stop before it spread across the world... "I'm a... scientist?"

"This," Neo said, "is where it all began." And now she saw that his own coat had changed to a white lab coat just like her own, though in accordance with the laws of Neo it still billowed and flowed with every movement. "Just a little town, in the middle of nowhere. They tried to seal it off, but it was too late." He placed his hands on his hips, staring off into the deserted streets. "Now they threaten the whole world. Only you and I, and our small team, were stupid enough - no, brave enough! - to return! Because in our hands lies the hope of humanity! The last chance of civilisation against the all encroaching hordes!" He stabbed at the sky with a finger. "We are the ones who will-"

"Wait, what was that about encroaching hordes?"

Neo whirled around, a delightful grin on his face. "You'll see!"

"Can we see inside? This coat isn't exactly helping with the heat issue."

"I didn't want to tell you until we got here," Neo said, as they walked on. "But we're lucky. This might be where it all began, but they held out here."

"Looks like it wasn't much fun for them," said Random, as she followed him through the debris and glass strewn streets. If anything of value had been there when the end came, it was gone now. A few abandoned cars dotted the main road, but most had vanished with their owners in a desperate attempt to reach safety. If Neo's words were correct, they mustn't have had much much luck. She licked her lips. The sun's rays felt heavy on her shoulders, as if trying to push her down onto the burning asphalt.

And then, at last, sound. Faint at first, then louder as they approached, until she realised that they were coming from a second storey window. There were voices raised in debate, calm orders, and the crackle of a radio trying in vain to pick up a sign of life in this wasteland.

She checked her phone, by instinct more than anything else, but the screen showed no signal. Of course, she remembered, even if they worked here, they'd never connect to the Nexus. Phones never could, this far away. They were truly lost in their own faraway world.

The lower storey might have been a coffee shop or a bakery before, but the glass counters were smashed and the food long gone. Random could hear more from upstairs now, not just the talk and the crackle of dead air, but the deep thrum of a generator, felt as much as heard. Up the back stairs - creaky, splintering, but still intact and weight bearing - she ascended, with Neo following on behind.

What was happening upstairs was, without any doubt, highly scientific. The scene had wasted no time in its loving descriptions of bubbling flasks and curling tubes, of low humming electronics hastily strung together and hooked up to the last generator, itself cobbled together and patched up with scraps. Not a piece of it made any sense. None of it had to. This was not a scene that relied on accuracy, but on looks. This was _science,_ in its most pure, literary form, all style and no substance, yet capable of great things, and it was ready to move the plot onward.

"This is the end," Neo said, as he strode in beside her. "This is the last laboratory, the last hope of humankind. This is where you and me, and them people over there-" he waved his arm to indicate the trio of characters already hard at work, who looked up on their arrival - "will work tirelessly, day in, day out, though burning days, and freezing nights, and concoct the last cure…"

"Oh great, we've got a dramatic one," said one of the assembled scientists. But Random didn't care.

"Okay, you've made your point! The last cure for what?" The scene was waiting for them. She was transfixed by the sunlight striking the beakers and tubes, gleaming through the grimy casing of the generator, bleaching the stripped bare walls. She had to begin, now. The plot wanted it.

"The zombies, of course!"

 

-

 

They weren't the main characters. They were there to research zombies and give out a little exposition as to how bad things were. The real main characters would be the big, bad, tough, and probably very sexy zombie hunters who would desperately race to get the cure out of the danger zone, all while fighting off the undead hoards and their own personal issues.

But first they needed a cure, and that was her team's job. The whole world changed, when you were being written, and you could do no more than be swept up in the story's currents as it drew you along. None of them had any names, though her colleagues dubbed her the Scientist With The Red Hair. It didn't matter. There was a texture and a weight that had been missing for as long as she could remember, and she drank it all in. The world felt real, in a way that it had not before.

She knew her way around the lab. She knew what all the nonsense equipment was for. The team listened to her, looked up to her. Had Neo swung this much for her? Or was it the story, curling around her, expressing unexpected fondness just as Mr Ian Woon had described?

Fluids bubbled. The generator churned. Things exploded, and the occasional eyebrow was lost, but the scene flowed on.

The scientists watched as she pried open a vat and lifted its contents from within - a severed hand, withered and rotten and twitching. They held their breath as she sliced off a sample of mouldy tissue and pipetted a minuscule droplet of pink, bubbling formula upon it. They crowded around as she slipped the sample under the microscope and adjusted the lens. And she knew, though she had never seen a cell up close before, what was happening.

"It's working," she whispered. "The deterioration is reversing, slowly, but… it's working. This could be it. This… this is going far better than I hoped…"

She let the rest of the team take turns at viewing the sample. The man who had commented on Neo's dramatic entrance earlier (who had since become known as The Scientist With The Moustache) congratulated her on her work with the warmest words he'd ever given anyone. And Neo, lounging in the corner, simply smiled.

"You _did_ swing this for me," she whispered, as the scene drew to a close. The story deposited her back on her own feet with a gentle sensation of letting go.

"Some of it was my doing, some of it was the story."

"You're going to tell me this is what being the main character is all, about, then?"

"Yeah, well… something tells me I don't need to."

 

-

 

Night fell. At first it was a blessed cool relief, though the team worked on through the dark, the lab lit by a single bulb strung from the ceiling. The scene took a solemn turn. Random had only a short while to stop and take heed of the influx of knowledge and backstory. It was not quite a shift in personality, more a change from the inside - no, an expansion. She was still herself, but herself and a little more. She had only just arrived at the lab this morning, yet she had also been here for weeks, working day in and day out with nothing more than what she and her team could scavenge.

Night was when the world grew dangerous. They didn't like the sun, as a rule. It dried out their flesh and tendons, forcing them to crawl across the landscape - still deadly, still near indestructible, but easy to outrun. But night was a different story. As if the moon and stars themselves lent them their strength, the undead hordes destroyed whole towns. With each death, their numbers grew. She remembered spending many a night huddled with her team in the dark behind barricaded doors, hoping for the sun's return.

There are many things that a fictional character need not worry about unless the plot dictates they are important, or at least remembers they exist. Economics, to give an already discussed example, or going to the toilet. But the rule of drama cannot be avoided. When you're on a scene, ready and waiting for the plot to move, you can bet this won't be one of those evenings where you lock the door and all have an early night.

Random remembered being here many, many times before. But the plot dictated that this was going to be the night everything went wrong.

The moon - only the one this time - cast its pale light over a lightless town. More stunning to Random, as she kept watch by the window, were the stars. When humankind's presence had been pushed back to a handful of scientists huddling around a generator powered bulb, they were free again to shine. The stars were never this bright in the Nexus, but here, they dusted the sky with colour and light.

The scene told her that perhaps this would be another peaceful night. Her anticipation told her otherwise.

There was a thump in the distance. Maybe it was downstairs. Maybe, if they were lucky, it was a scavenging animal hoping that maybe a bagel or two had survived the apocalypse. The assembled scientists exchanged glances, and gripped tight to their makeshift weapons. All the bullets were long gone, and guns were of little use anyway. The only way you brought down a zombie was to bludgeon it with the nearest heavy object and hope it stopped moving enough to keep it contained. Even the severed hand rattled in its container, sensing its kin nearby.

"What about the cure?" she suggested. "Would that work?"

"Isn't enough of it," said the Scientist With The Moustache. "We do things the usual way."

"When in doubt, blunt instruments?"

"Yep."

"They'll never take it" said Neo (now the Scientist Who Shouts Dramatically). "Not while I'm around!"

"Quiet, you want them to hear?" said The Scientist With The Moustache.

"They're going to anyway," muttered Random. "This.. being the scene, and all that. Good luck, by the way."

"Don't need good luck, just got to look good," said Neo. They knew only the barest details of this plot, but this was where it all got serious. This was the scene where he'd die. She wondered if he'd been planning it all day - knowing him, most likely.

"They're coming up the stairs now," whispered another of the team. (He'd been previously dubbed The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot, despite the lack of robots in the story.) There was another series of thumps, and then a hollow, slamming noise against the door.

"Guess soufflé night's off," said Random. Her fingers gripped the plank so tight, she'd get splinters if the narrative remembered them. "Unless these are guests."

"I doubt it," said the Scientist With The Moustache.

The door shook. Every night, the scientists piled everything they had in front of it - all the tables and benches, all the chairs, even, as the heaviest thing in the room, the generator itself. Nothing was left unmoved. Yet, as she watched it shake, Random knew it wasn't going to be enough. _It's just a story_ , she told herself, to calm the tremors that ran through her body. _We'll all be fine when the story's over. It's just a story. It isn't real. For all you know, the zombies are all really nice people when they're not acting._

That was all she was doing, wasn't she, acting? But surely it was okay to be afraid? Surely even Mr Ian Woon was afraid, when he was first killed off. Just because he could talk about it on air as a minor inconvenience didn't mean it wasn't terrifying the first time around. There, that made it all better, didn't it?

Besides, being afraid would make it a far more convincing performance, right?

Long cracks formed down the door's length. The generator shuddered, and the light flickered. With each thump, the huddled group were plunged into darkness for a fraction of a second. With each instant of light, the cracks grew deeper. Random blinked, and the door split open.

The scent of rot, sweet and rancid and left to putrefy in the desert sun, flooded her senses, and her eyes watered.

The horde peeled the door as if it was paper, clambering over one another in an attempt to get through. They poured in, swarming over tables and chairs and each other. One of the scientists jumped forward, brandishing her weapon, only to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Random felt her muscles tense up at the sight of it, not sure if it was for better or worse that the fallen scientist was now covered in a mass of rotting flesh. _It's only a story. It's only a story._

"Get back!" roared the Scientist with the Moustache. His voice spurred her into action - the cure! They couldn't afford to lose their only precious vial. She darted to the end of the room, as behind her another voice complained that this would all be going so much better if someone had been allowed to build a zombie dispatching robot.

The horde advanced, but the scientists held them off. The Scientist with the Moustache was a stout man, who hurled them from his shoulders and onto the floor as they tried to bite and claw, while Neo and the roboticist were lean and fast, able to dodge and deliver their killing blows unseen.

But as brave as her scientists were, there were simply too many of the undead. With all their night-granted speed they poured in, coursing over the fallen bodies of their fellows that, even now, tried to snatch at anything still living. "Look out!" she yelled, as one of them tried to sneak up on Neo. He whirled around and, despite his fate for this scene, this was not the blow that would fell him. He dodged and delivered a swift return blow, and the zombie fell to his feet.

He was laughing, too, as if this was all one big game. She'd forgotten that it was. It was just a-

She felt something move beside her, something warm and breathy. Time slowed down as she turned around. The story had her in its grip, and it was determined that she see every little detail.

The creature's lungs, though long since dead, still rasped in a mockery of life. Withered eyes, set in skin drawn taut over bones, regarded her as she crouched, clinging to the box and its precious contents. She caught a whiff of decay, of sand and sun and flesh left out in the burning desert. It stood over her and raised one hand.

It was holding a shovel, as if the man it had once been had died with it in his hand and had never let go since. The fingers had rotted to bone and exposed sinew, yet they never released their grip on the blackened implement.

Deep in Random's thoughts, a flash of understanding sparked.

"And what are YOU doing?"

Time snapped back. The zombie lurched, and was caught off-guard as Neo slammed his makeshift weapon into its side. Its hand shattered, little splinters of bone showering the floorboards. The shovel launched itself into the air…

..and time slowed again, the scene lingering on every little detail once more.

The shovel arced its way across the room, spinning in mid-air. Neo moved like the frames of an animated image, slowed down and fading from one to the other as he flashed her a grin.

The shovel struck him in the side of the head, and he crumpled to the floor.

One again, time returned to normal. Of the shovel there was now no sign, but then again, it hadn't been given its name for nothing.

"You jammy bastard!" she said, at the still body of her friend. "I'll never get you to shut up about that!"

But there was work to be done, plots to be written, and zombies to be slain, so she took up his weapon, and launched herself into the fray.

 

-

 

"Get the bodies out and secure, then initialise decontamination," said Random. "Then we get all the valuables out of here and find somewhere else to base ourselves, because I'm not sticking around. And neither are you." The makeshift lab was littered with flesh and shattered bones, misshapen forms still trying to drag themselves across the floor. They were as close to harmless as they'd ever be, but they still strove to push themselves onward. They'd just have to deal, Random thought. Learn to step around them. This place wasn't going to be any safer without the application of fire.

They set to work gathering up the remains of their colleagues. Random stood to one side and directed the action, trying not to look too closely. Even continuing her mantra of _this is all just a story, I really should calm down, this is all just a story,_ when the Scientist with the Moustache walked past with Neo slung over his shoulder, the instinctive lurch she felt at seeing his body flopping with every step was too much.

"You did well back there," said the Scientist with the Moustache, once he returned. As per story rules, bodies were to be kept locked up in the event that they rose again. He moved closer, bending over a little and speaking in a low voice, so that what he said was off the story's records. "They'll come back when they're done," he added.

"Thanks," she said.

With the bodies gone, the rest of the supervision wasn't so bad. She was standing outside the shop door, watching as the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot scouted the area with a handheld torch, when a voice by her feet made her jump into the air.

"Hey," it said. "Is this that walking lumps of flesh type novel I've been told to count?"

She caught her breath when she saw what it was - a word count bot. Oh, yes, of course... the scene was nearly over. They'd need to know what the word count was.

Like all word count bots, he was built in the shape of a small woodland creature, in accordance with ancient and unknown NaNoWriMo traditions. This one looked like a perpetually disgruntled rabbit. Of course most rabbits looked that way anyway, but being made out of metal didn't help matters. In the background, Random's colleague stopped and watched as his torch fell on the creature's shiny back.

"Only the Validator says I need to get out and do some. Counting, that is," said the rabbit robot. "Hey, is there anywhere a robot can get a drink around here?"

Random was confused for a moment, until she remembered that wordcount robots, in accordance with rather more understandable NaNoWriMo traditions, ran on caffeine. "Upstairs, first on your left," she said. All scientists knew that coffee must always be stockpiled in the event of certain disasters such as the shops being closed, severe weather, or the end of the world. That was an important part of being a scientist. "Hey, if you're not going to do anything with that, can I take it?" she said, to her colleague. "I still have to scout out where we're setting up shop tonight, remember?"

He handed the torch over, and she walked off into the dark. Over her shoulder, she heard a faint "So... are you doing anything tonight?"

A little later on, she felt darkness envelope her again as the Validator passed through, leaving a taste in her mouth that was a little like twelve thousand words, and a lot like blue.

Neo was never going to shut up about this.


	4. Aardvarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random worries about Neo, but there's no time to spare as the plot cracks down.

_This is an unforgettable moment, and you should ride it for all it's worth. Even if you don't know exactly how you're going to fit those five ninjas into your courtroom drama, hey, they've arrived. And they want to be in the book. So put them in there. Inevitably they'll do something for the plot. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

Mist rose in little clouds from the surface of a still lake, the surface of which reflected a steel grey November sky. It curled over damp mud and grass, and drifted onward toward the empty cabins facing the lakeside, flanking a large blue tent whose geometrically impossible interior was currently serving as a very handy recording equipment store.

"Today," said Tideworth, putting on her best smile despite the weather, "I'm speaking to you from the Camp NaNoWriMo grounds, in the vicinity of the Midway Mountains. Now before you start wondering, no, I haven't seen the Block Ness Monster today. I don't believe she enjoys the weather.

"I'm here to speak to you today about the importance of our heritage and its unique sites," she went on. "After all, I am sure that we all remember Script Frenzy." She did. She'd done shows for it and everything, way back when Sue had just come into her life and she was getting on her feet in the television business, when she was picking herself up after what had happened before. "Now I'm sure Camp NaNoWriMo is far from everyone's thoughts right now, and so is summer itself. I know it's far away from mine, as I stand here getting my feet _quite_ wet. But today is an important day, because..."

She stopped. Because what? Why was she forgetting it now? Wasn't she supposed to have an affinity for this sort of thing?

She shook her head again. "I'm sorry," she said. "Put that one on the Christmas reel, would you? Tell them I _do_ mess up on occasion. Can we try that again in a minute?"

But she _didn't_ mess up. She was a Personification of NaNoWriMo. She could no more ruin a broadcast than the Validator could give an inaccurate word count. She blinked, and a figure stood at the corner of her eye, and she turned to see it vanish. It had been grey, except for the tent, so was everything else.

"Oh, and it seems we have a visitor!" she said. "But they seem to be gone. I must be getting distracted, that's why." Or she'd been worrying about Sue again, or thinking of Screnzy's fate. She was going to have to ask Mr Ian Woon how he coped. "Anyway! Shall we do that again"

The cameras rolled, and Tildeworth put her best smile back on. "Today," she began, the script committed entirely to memory, "I'm speaking to you from the Camp NaNoWriMo grounds, in the vicinity of the Midway Mountains. Now before you start wondering, no, I haven't seen-"

There was a loud, watery _gloop_. Something tugged at her hand, and was gone before she could get a look at anything more than a sleek, scaled hide as it vanished under the surface. She looked back to the cameras, and to her water (and dribble) covered hand.

But she was a _professional_ , Baty damn it all, and she was going to keep going.

"My apologies for the intrusion there," she said. "It appears that I _have_ seen the Block Ness Monster, and it also appears she has eaten my microphone."

 

-

 

They were clearing out space for their next makeshift lab, when Random felt the story dissipate around her. The sense of driving purpose, that there was a narrative taking her hands and tugging her along in its direction, slipped away. She wasn't The Scientist With The Red Hair any more. She was just Random. The story had gone, to pull its focus on the approaching heroes.

The second hint was when the door opened, and in strode the scientist who had fallen earlier that night.

"That was _awesome!_ " she said. "Wooo! Don't worry, I'm clean. Just thought I'd drop in and see how you were all going."

Random looked past her, beyond the door, but there was no sign of anyone else.

"Hey," she said, "did you see my friend anywhere?"

"The shouting one? He wasn't around when I came back, no."

"He's gone off to brag, like you said he would," said The Scientist With The Moustache.

"Yeah, I bet," Random said. "He's probably in Club Ack! going on and on about how he got hit by the Shovel. Didn't stop to think of.." She paused, and nibbled on her bottom lip. "Hey, anyone got a problem if I… slip out of here for a while?"

"Do what you want," said The Scientist With The Moustache.

"Yeah, but the main characters are turning up tomorrow," said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "Don't want to miss those."

"Aww, you guys get all the fun," said the ex-scientist. "Hey, you think I can sneak into the crowd? Give me the right makeup, I could totally be a zombie and you'd never know. Rawwwr."

"We kind of planned to burn your corpse for safety reasons," said the Scientist With The Moustache.

"Don't cremate me!" said Technically Dead Etc. "I'd look awful afterwards!"

"Relax," said The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "We were just going to say we did. It's not as if it's plot critical. Hey Red, what do you think?"

But Random was already gone.

 

-

 

This late at night, the music emanating from Club Ack! was a deep rhythmic thud that entered via the feet as you stood on the pavement outside. Lights spilt out onto the concrete and all over Random's coat, turning it alternating shades of pink and blue. The interior, as seen from the broad windows, was a mass of colour and people.

"Alright," she said, as she strode inside. "I'll teach you to go wandering off without me!" Her lab coat swirled around her almost as his did.

She debated ordering a permapersimmon cocktail at the bar, but hesitated, her colleague's words about tomorrow morning still fresh on her mind, Drunkenness was one thing that most certainly did affect fictional characters, as it was always good for a plot point. She was certain that alcohol was yet another… essential nutrient… that people would stock at the end of the world, but it didn't look good to be hung over in front of a couple of protagonists. Better stick to questions.

"Hey," she said. "Anyone seen my friend about? Tall, flowy coat, hair you could stab yourself on, got killed off by the Travelling Shovel of Death earlier in the evening and won't shut up about it?"

"Random, is it?" said the bartender. "Yeah, I know that friend of yours. Haven't seen him all night. I'd know if I had. Shovel got him, really?"

"He hasn't shown up at all?" Random turned in her seat, looking over her shoulder at the dance floor and the booths. "You think he's in The Lounge? I hate to stop by and not get a drink at least, but I haven't seen him since his last scene…"

It turned out that Neo wasn't in The Lounge either. Nor was he enjoying a celebratory pint or five at the Warm Onion, chatting in the Spork Room, or even taking a walk with anyone who'd tag along in the November Gardens. The Gardens might have been near infinite in its interior, but it knew exactly who was there and who wasn't.

She remembered to try his phone rather later than she'd have liked, but when she did, there was no reply. Well, that didn't mean anything, did it? Maybe he was back in the novel, or another one. No signal, no call. It all made perfect sense, scientifically speaking.

He was going to be fine, and, as Tildeworth would have said, the show must always go on. The jerk had probably just found another novel and forgotten he couldn't call.

The way back across the desert after passing through the library was blisteringly cold, as if the sun had never touched the land, but there was nothing to worry about, plot-wise. It was too busy with the heroes to bother her here. So she enjoyed a peaceful walk back, and heard a familiar voice as she walked up the stairs.

"…now remember that Week Two is still a long way off, so get in as much action as you can now. Who - at least who, who was around then - can forget the terrible Week Two of-"

"You've got a telly?" she said, to the assembled scientists. Sure enough, they were crowded around one on the floor - Moustache, Robots, and Technically Dead And No Longer A Part Of This Novel Except Possibly As A Zombie Extra. It was a heavy CRT that had seen better days, and the signal flickered as white snow coursed across the screen, but it was unmistakably showing The Tildeworth Hour.

"Yeah, but it's not part of the plot," said The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "We just brought it in off hours. Wouldn't run otherwise."

"Yeah, but how'd you get a signal? I didn't think things got through here."

" _She_ can," said The Scientist With The Moustache. "How else would people watch her?"

"Oh," Random said. "I guess that makes sense."

"Shh, everyone!" said Technically Dead Etc. "It's the giraffe knitting special, I don't want to miss this!"

 

-

 

Random woke in the morning to the desert sun streaming on her face from a bare window and floorboards beneath her back. She closed her eyes, but opened them again when she remembered where she was.

There was nothing for it but to get up, even though everyone else was still asleep. She took to raiding the coffee stash (of which there was rather less than the previous night - how much caffeine did word count robots need, anyway?) and pottering around the half assembled lab.

This one was a little larger, and even had a proper kitchen, even if it was a smaller one hidden away in the back without even a window to give it any light. There was a microwave, but whether it would run on plot time was anyone's guess.

Out of a lack of anything better to do, she played with the dial. It was part mechanical, and fell back to place with a _ding_. That, at least, was comforting. The knowledge that, no matter where you went or what happened, microwaves would still go ding when they'd finished was a calming thought when the novels came calling.

She wondered, in that idle, disconnected way of someone flirting with an idea and wondering if it was worth stepping up to a serious relationship, or at least dinner somewhere fancy and a nice bunch of flowers, if there were any other uses for things that went ding.

She wondered if zombies had a distinct biochemical trail. She wondered how in Chris Baty's name she knew to think of the idea of a distinct biochemical trail, and how she knew the best way to detect one and/or make things go ding in their presence.

She also wondered why her pockets were so heavy. Standing in the doorway, in what sunlight made it through to the kitchen, she emptied them, only to find the junk foisted upon her during the Kickoff Party, with all its promises of plot alteration services and discounts. The last card was the one she'd flat out forgotten - S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency, address given as 4291 Shady Street, Foreshadow City.

"There goes the plot again," she said, and put it back in her pocket.

There was still time, right?

 

-

 

The sun rose higher. Technically Dead Etc said her goodbyes and left, sensing both imminent plot and an imminent plot hole if she stayed around any longer, while Random, Moustache, and Robots stayed around to finish setting up the new laboratory. It wasn't a pretty picture. Too many of the glass beakers and inexplicable tubes of bubbling liquid had been smashed to pieces in the zombie attack, and glassware was never in plentiful supply during the apocalypse. They had to make do.

"Okay," Random said, heading back up the stairs with her latest finds. "I've got a measuring jug, two wine glasses, and a Fluffles The Happy Aardvark cup. If you get to the top of his eye I estimate you've filled about two hundred millilitres." The Scientist With The Moustache, though, didn't seem to have heard. He was standing by the window, gazing outside. She put her finds down on the nearest horizontal space and went to join him. "Hey, what's going on?"

"We got company," he said. "Don't think it's zombies."

The back window gave the team an impressive view of nothing. A road led out of town across rocky waste and scrublands, marking a straight line toward distant grey mountains, so far away they never seemed to get any closer no matter how far down that road you went. The view never changed, except today. Today, a plume of sandy dust rose from the road, billowing into the sky.

She could feel the plot taking hold again, taking her hand in its grasp and gently tugging her along.

"Looks like they're here."

 

-

 

The three remaining scientists stood at the entrance to town. There was really only one - the road sliced straight through and carried on through the desert as if nothing was there. The town was a cluster of buildings huddling around a speck of its length, marked by a few roads branching off and the sort of sign that once boasted of the local population. Someone, trying to be clever, had kept repeatedly crossing it out.

The desert sun burned against Random's skin, but she stayed. The heroes needed the cure, and if they never knew anyone was here, they'd barrel on through without a hint of plot resolution. Sweat dropped from her face as she watched the cloud grew closer, and resolve into the shape of a car, trailing dust in its wake. It was an ancient thing, that had probably been some sort of blue before the sun and sand had their way with it.

The car stopped a little way from the outskirts, the drivers apparently unwilling to communicate. Random stepped forward, her arms held out. "It's okay!" she said. "We're clean. You can come on out now."

Slowly, the front doors opened, and out stepped the zombie hunters. They were tall men, with curly pale hair, and though neither of them looked as though they'd had any sleep lately, they hid it well. One looked to the other, and they traded words that Random could not hear. At last, after an uneasy silence, they walked forward. The slightly shorter of the two held on to the other's arm as if he could not balance, but when they drew closer Random saw that his eyes were blank white. An early stage of the infection, perhaps, forging his way on and clinging to his humanity with all the strength of… well, a protagonist? Or maybe the truth was less sinister, the eyes were plastic, and he had a thing for looking strange.

"You're the lost scientist team, aren't you?" said the taller one.

"They'd better be the lost scientist team," added the possibly blind one.

"You are, aren't you?" said the other. "Because if you are… you're the last hope."

"Yeah," said Random. "We get that a lot."

 

-

 

The box opened, and from it, Random lifted the first vial. The other scientists were now hard at word trying to synthesise another batch. The zombie hunters stared.

"Give us a day or so, and we estimate we can have another ten aardvarks worth," she said.

"You guys taking the piss?" said the white-eyed hunter.

"Sorry. We had to go scavenging, and there was this thing with the cups and… we've been here a long time," she said. "You kind of forget there's such a thing as an outside world where people don't do science with kid's utensils."

"It's perfect," said the other hunter. "Ten aardvarks? We'll take it."

"Yeah," said the white-eyed hunter. "All the aardvarks we can carry."

 

-

 

With a couple of extra pairs of hands in the form of the zombie hunters (brothers, sole survivors of a devastated hometown, loaded with plot heavy issues just itching to bump up the wordcount), they soon had the required amount. None of them wanted to stay long, and the scientists had to stay around to keep watch on the nameless little town where the outbreak had begun. That was always part of the contract - they'd only been plot devices, after all. But the story tugged on.

Two days passed. The hunters were pleasant enough company, and even if they did have the odd argument, it was all for the sake of the plot, and they hid it in private as well. Random herself might have been to Club Ack! and its competitors only recently, but the plot insisted she had no company outside he team for months, and she needed someone to talk to.

Occasionally, when the plot didn't pull so hard, she looked at her phone and remembered there was no signal. But with the hunters here, the plot didn't let go. There was only time to sneak in a quick episode of the Tildeworth Hour when it let go long enough to let the TV work.

"Being a main character must be busy," she once commented to the white-eyed hunter once.

"You have no idea," he said. "Brings in the fans, though."

She peered into the main room, where Tildeworth was stressing the importance of not accusing anyone in an already completed novel of being cheaters. "Hey, can I talk to you?"

"Sure," said the white-eyed hunter. "What's your problem?"

Random led him out to the stairwell, where they wouldn't be heard over the sound of the TV. "Ever had anyone just… vanish on you?"

He frowned. "Now, you're not talking about plot here, are you?"

"No," she said. "I mean… has anyone left a novel and said they'd meet you afterwards, but then… they didn't? No calls, no messages? They weren't home, or out anywhere they'd normally be? Like they'd just… gone?"

"I do horror, monsters, that sort of thing," said the hunter. "Not mystery. This is one of them personal things, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she said. "And I'm… I'm sorry if you don't do personal. I just wondered if it had happened, that's all." She turned to leave, back up the stairs to the normal world of fuzzy TV reception and short films about giraffes.

"Hey, wait up there a second."

She turned back around.

The hunter held out his hand. "Didn't say I don't do personal."

 

-

 

They sat in his car and shared a flask of coffee between them. "'S'busy work," he'd said, when she told him that she'd not even had a chance to check where Neo was. "Not your fault if you couldn't go looking right away."

"Who said I thought it was my fault?" said Random.

"You kind of gave me the impression. Look at it this way." He fiddled with his seat, reclining it until he was practically horizontal. "I'm not my brother, and if I was I'd probably say a lot of nice fancy words at you because he's good at them things. And I'm not. So I'll just tell you no, I've never heard of that happening before, yeah, I don't blame you for worrying, and no, it's not your fault. Also that this is good coffee. Where'd you get coffee around here?"

She shrugged. "Plot hole?"

Coffee and a chat made it a little easier no matter where it came from, and so it was with a slightly lighter step that she went to sleep that night.

 

-

 

When the sun rose the next morning and her team with it, it was early, to get the cure vials packed and loaded. Bubble wrap was another thing that turned out to be in short supply at the end of the world, but nobody wanted to risk shattering one - not unless it would be suitably dramatic. But there was nothing that dramatic about loading up a car, so the plot left them alone until the heroes were ready to depart.

"I'm glad for your help and I'm sorry I can't do more," said the white-eyed hunter. "But if by some luck we get this to the right people and stop what's going on out there, then we'll do what we can to get back here to you."

"We understand," said Random. "There's too much to be done here."

"But might I say a word?" said the other hunter.

"Of course."

He was standing by the driver's side door, holding it open as if ready to step inside, if he could only remember what else it was he was supposed to be doing. "Listen, you and us have been working well together over the past few days. If we… I mean to say that…"

The plot took her by the hands again. It touched her, invisible, but thick in the air.

"He means to ask if you'd come along with us after all the work you did," said the white-eyed hunter.

"We could only take one," his brother said. "But if you thought it was a good idea…"

That was when she realised what the plot wanted. It had lingered these past few days, letting the brothers stay for longer than they should, focusing on their work together on the lab, focusing on their conversations. It was just as Mr Ian Woon had described. The plot liked her. It wanted to do more with her.

She could take up their offer and fight alongside them, delivering the cure to millions of desperate people, save the world… she could have a name, and be a main character. She could do all these things…

She stepped forward and something nudged her in the leg. She put her hand in her pocket to shift the offending item, and felt her fingers close around a rectangle of card.

"I…" she said, and looked around.

They were all watching her. The hunters waited for her to get inside the car. The two remaining scientists stared in disbelief.

"I can't."

" _What?_  " hissed The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot.

"I have… things to do," she said, tiptoeing in a circle and giving everyone a wary look. "Yes, things. Here, and close to here. I'd like to take you up on your offer, but I can't."

The Scientist With The Moustache broke the line and strode forward. "Red," he said, keeping his voice low. "You know what they're asking of you?"

"I do," she whispered back. "But I can't go. If I do then I'll never have time to… You know what I mean. I have to find out. I have to find Neo."

"Hey," hissed the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "What are you doing now? He'll come back. And you can't go hammering on the fourth wall like that! Everyone'll hear you!"

"Yes I can," said Random. "I just did."

"But-"

"You can sort it out in the edit!" She pulled away from the scientist-scrum, and looked back at the hunters. Better make this a good one. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm going to have to decline your offer. There's too much to be done here, and your supplies are precious. I'd love to come with you. I'd love for us all to be able to come with you. But as long as this town is still here, it needs us. It needs people to get to the bottom of what's happening. We'll stay here. And if by some luck we manage to survive, then I promise we'll be waiting for you."

The white-eyed hunter smiled, and nodded in her direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Tildeworth is using the [Blue Tent of WHOA](http://www.wikiwrimo.org/wiki/Blue_Tent_of_WHOA) as a base of operations. Hey, it's not Camp season. There's room to spare.
> 
> Meanwhile, [Jen and Dhaymin Dhalsiv](http://archiveofourown.org/series/10828) guest star as the zombie hunters. Had to be done.


	5. Welcome to Foreshadow City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random goes looking for help, only to... well, find it. Whether or not that's a good thing remains to be seen. Plus a celebrity encounter, and a revelation about phone batteries.

_Cue thunder. Cue lightning. And cue some big-time writerly grumpiness. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

Random made it back to to the shack, through the library's winding shelves, and into the square before she realised she had thrown away her life's dream for an uncertainty and a business card, and perhaps she should be feeling a bit stupid about that.

"Well, he thought I was doing the right thing," she said to herself, startling a passing unicorn. What else was it the white eyed hunter said? It was no use dwelling on what she could have done, when there were plenty of things she could do now. She could go back to her novel and hope the heroes came back. And if they did, then what? Then she'd never have time to return. You wrote the plot hole, you dealt with it.

She looked at the card again. Foreshadow City? She'd never been there before, and by all she knew, it was a fair walk from the central Nexus. Well, that sealed it. It was time to start moving.

 

-

 

The first thing to go was the light. Buildings and towers squeezed closer together, and the sky itself dimmed along with them. The golden autumn sunshine that bathed the central Nexus faded away as if drained out of the world. Low, steely grey clouds blanketed the skies in a thick cover. The streets were slick with recent rain, threatening to seep through shoes that were used to expansive squares and desert dust. The coffee shops were gone too, replaced by narrow doorways through which the only bright light in this place shone, leading to underground spaces from which emanated low and mournful music.

The banner, while it told her exactly where she was, looked a little out of place in comparison.

It was pink. It was covered in glitter that had clung stubbornly against the rain, though some of it swirled in the gutter below. The text, which looked unsettlingly like Comic Sans to Random's eyes, read:

WELCOME TO FORESHADOW CITY

"Okaaaay," said Random. Crowded rain washed streets, peppered with hidden dens of intrigue, she could handle. This… not so much. This was like wandering into another zombie battle and finding they were led by a small white rabbit.

But she'd come all this way, so she strode onward, underneath the disturbing pink banner and its dreadful typesetting, over the fallen glitter, and into the depths of Foreshadow City.

Skyscrapers crowded in around her. If there was any light left to fall from the overcast sky, it would never have made it down here. There was nothing to guide her way but a few scattered street lamps that lent a a dirty yellow cast to the rain slicked streets. A faint drizzle, light but persistent, began to fall. It clung to Random's hair, causing the usually gravity defying curls to sag under its weight. The roads were uneven and potholed, filled with puddles and waiting to snag unwary ankles.

If anyone lived here, they didn't want to advertise the fact. There was not a single light on in the whole city, or so it seemed until she stumbled around a corner and came across a single window, lit by a faint orange glow.

She checked the street sign, and ran to the door - 4291. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

There was no reply. She waited a little longer, and then tried it herself. To her surprise, it swung open with barely any input. She composed herself, and walked up the stairs to the upper floor.

It was barely any brighter. A street lamp, positioned just outside, outshone the small coloured glass desk lamp, and cast its light as a series of bars through the half opened blinds over the window. When she looked up, she saw a ceiling fan turning, so slowly she doubted that it was any use at all.

But more than this, she saw the figure at the desk, face obscured in the shadows, half hidden by the turned up coat collar, leaning back in the chair, legs resting, crossed, on the desk top. The figure spoke in a low growl, each syllable precise and deliberate, to nobody in particular.

"She walked into my office. She had the sort of hair that told me she was always on fire, even in a downpour, and her face said the same. From the cut of her clothes, she was the investigating type herself, but it seemed her leads ran dry some time ago. She had…" The figure paused, and then, in an altogether more normal voice, said: "Look, do you mind if I don't do the monologue thing? Most of the clients expect it, but it's a pain to get right on the fly."

"I… don't mind at all?"

"Oh, good," said the figure. She flicked the desk lamp onto a higher setting, pulled her chair back so she was sitting up straight, and sloughed off the heavy outer coat, revealing a tall, thin frame dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, warm dark skin, and a cascade of thick, black hair that ran to her shoulders in elegant waves. "Well, take a seat," she said. "May as well get this done with."

There was a chair in front of the desk, so Random took the offer and sat down, crossing her hands over the desk top. "Are you S. C. Pilcrowe, then?"

"Never known myself to be anyone else," said Pilcrowe. "You here for a reason then? You look like you've got a reason."

"Yeah…" Random said. She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging some of the misty drizzle. "Yeah, I got one. I had this friend, and.." She stopped again. It had been one thing to tell the white-eyed hunter. It was quite another to tell this brooding character. "He vanished. I think he did, anyway. I've been back home and everywhere he usually goes, and I haven't seen him, and nobody else has, and he hasn't called or anything. It's like he just stopped existing."

"And under what circumstances did he vanish?" said Pilcrowe.

"He got himself killed off. Well, I wouldn't say got himself, he was going to die anyway, but we all knew that. We were fighting zombies."

"Zombies?"

"Yeah, we were in this novel…"

Pilcrowe sat up a little straighter and raised one eyebrow.

"Yeah, this horror type novel? I mean, we were only secondary characters. We didn't have names or anything, but it was a good time…"

"The circumstances of his death, please?"

"Yeah. Sorry. So we're fighting these zombies and one of them kills him. And it was the Travelling Shovel of Death, so I thought to myself oh, look at that, now he's never going to shut up…" She wondered if the look on Pilcrowe's face now meant "I think I know how you feel." Better get to the point. "But I mean, it's just the Travelling Shovel of Death, isn't it?"

"Quite," said Pilcrowe.

"It's tradition! It kills loads of people every year! Look how many times it got Mr Ian Woon, and he's still going on about it on TV! The Travelling Shovel of Death doesn't just… _kill_ kill people!"

"Indeed it does not," said Pilcrowe. "You do seem to have a good idea of what is going on. It makes me wonder why you came here in the first place."

"What?"

"What I said, scientist. You know there are many fates that might befall a fictional character, but the Travelling Shovel of Death is a temporary setback." She clasped her own hands over the desk, mirroring Random's position. "Perhaps he has intentions to override the plot and manage a miraculous survival, in which he will return to surprise you. I suggest you get back to your… novel… and see."

"But he wouldn't," said Random.

"Do you know of any other possibilities?"

"He wouldn't! You don't know him!" She felt her own fingers twitch, her hands unclasp, and clench into fists. She stood up, and discovered that to add to her irritation, one of her shoes had let in water. "You don't! If he was still around he'd be bragging about it from Club Ack! to the Spork Room! And I looked everywhere and asked everyone I found, so yes, I might be from some stupid zombie novel but I did a lot more detective work than you! What kind of character are you?"

"I did not claim to have a problem with zombie novels."

"Then you're missing the point!" yelled Random. "This is about my friend, and if you want me to go back to my novel then fine, I will! Because someone told me it was better to do what you could than nothing at all, so you can… you can just stay here, in your miserable little room in your miserable city, and be as miserable as you want!"

The dramatic effect of her lab coat swirling around as she turned and strode toward the door was a little ruined by the dampness still clinging to it, but she didn't care. Her hand rested on the latch…

"Wait," said Pilcrowe.

Very slowly, Random looked over her shoulder.

"That's how you feel?"

"This had better not be some stupid test to see how serious I am about this," Random hissed, through clenched teeth.

"I assure you it is not. I believe you're serious, and if you need help in finding your friend, even if he has gone to plot some sort of surprise for you, then I will help."

"You're really going to help me?"

"Yes."

"Then don't pull that stunt again." Random walked back to Pilcrowe's desk, but didn't sit down. Instead she wrapped her arms around herself, though it was more to ward off the breeze from the lazy ceiling fan than to look intimidating. "Okay. When do we start and what do we do?"

"We start now," said Pilcrowe, "but first, I will need to make a call. Will you excuse me?" She gestured toward a door off to the side.

"Go ahead," said Random.

Pilcrowe vanished before Random had a chance to see what was behind the door. Unable to resist her curiosity, she edged in beside it. The dark wood was set with two panels of frosted glass, enough to let a blurred, warmly lit image through. She could make out Pilcrowe's shadow standing there, but nothing else.

She probably shouldn't go so far as to peek through the keyhole, but after what had just happened, she supposed she was entitled to a look. Just a quick one. So she crouched down, careful her own shadow didn't show through the glass, and peered through.

Now she could see Pilcrowe properly, holding a sleek and highly anachronistic phone to her ear. Her voice was too low and quiet for Random to make out, so she focused her attention on the room.

It reminded her of the back rooms at her old lab, somewhere a person would never state that they lived, but nevertheless spent an awful lot of time that could have been spent elsewhere. A sagging old couch and some framed black and white photos on the wall were the only concessions to comfort. If the room wasn't dingy enough from the lighting, the thick coating of dust finished the job. It was enough to make Random hold her breath, afraid she'd sneeze from the sight of it. But at a second glance, there were two carefully cleaned objects. One was a television, even older than the one from the lab and almost certainly as black and white as the photos, but nevertheless in much better condition than the lab set. The other was an antique radio, set in a casing of polished wood. As Random watched, Pilcrowe brushed a stray speck from its surface with her free hand, a gesture of such gentleness and care that Random would never have guessed at.

She pulled away then, a little guilty, as if she'd been witness to something private that she should never have seen.

A few minutes later, as Random returned to her seat in front of the desk, the door opened.

"Apologies for keeping you waiting," said Pilcrowe, pocketing the wildly out of place handset. "I needed to fill in Cedilla."

Random, recalling the well dusted television set, took the card out from her pocket and studied it again. S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency. "Wait a minute…"

"Oh."

"You're Sue, aren't you? Sue Pilcrowe? Tildeworth's Sue?"

"Yes," said Pilcrowe. "So what if I am? Susan C. Pilcrowe. Must I explain the initials? People tent to not take you seriously in this trade with a name like Susan. The only way to pull that off is to be a little old lady with a knack for stumbling upon murder scenes, and while I might be the latter, I am not the former. Yes. I was on the phone to _that_ Cedilla Tildeworth. I assumed you'd already seen her banner."

"I… didn't know." Random nibbled at her lip and wondered if she'd stumbled on something else private. "She talks about you all the time. I just… didn't know." _I thought you'd be nicer_ , added her thoughts, but she kept them to herself. And then: _That explains the glitter._

"I know," Pilcrowe took her heavy brown coat back from its stand. "I watch her all the time. Every time she's on." She gazed at nothing in particular as she pulled he coat over her shoulders and tied the belt. "Well then," she went on, snapping back to herself, "better be ready to go now. I want to check your novel for Clues."

That meant business. Random could tell, because of the capital letter.

 

-

 

"I'm sure you can't go back to my novel just like that," said Random. "What about the librarians?"

"What about the librarians?" said Pilcrowe. "I'll go where I please."

No sooner had they stepped inside the library's depths than a crackling form coalesced before them. "Please state nature of nov-"

"S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency and client." Pilcrowe flashed one of her cards in the librarian's face. "This lady's on her way back to her novel, and I'm on business."

"Ah," said the librarian. "Very well."

"That was… pretty cool," Random admitted, as she wound her way through the now familiar path to the Horror and Supernatural genre aisle.

"He's just a librarian," said Pilcrowe. "Nothing in the world librarians can do to you. They're pen pushers. You're a fictional character. If you want to go somewhere, you go there. Not a thing they can do to stop you."

"Yeah, well, I've only ever been to this one so far," said Random.

"Get used to it. You might be going to a few more."

If Pilcrowe was uncomfortable in the desert sun when they stepped outside, she didn't show it. Random, meanwhile, practically steamed. Her drizzle soaked clothes, hot and heavy in the heat, clung to her body, and the thought of getting inside to what Pilcrowe termed 'the scene of the crime' was even more inviting than usual.

The car was gone. Only a trail of grooves, leading out of town and back onto the road that sliced through the desert, remained. Random stopped for a moment, and followed them with her eyes into the distance, until they vanished into imperceptibility.

"This the spot?" said Pilcrowe.

"What? No. This is just…" She tore her eyes away from the road. "Nothing. We'd better get inside. Let's see, it was the old lab, so that was this way, and…"

"Hello, Red. Thought you'd left."

"And those?" said Pilcrowe, jerking her thumb back at the two approaching, white coated figures.

"Er… they're my colleagues. Or I think they are. It's a bit hard to tell." Random looked back at the two scientists, now crossing the road to reach them. "Hi, guys. How's things?"

"Didn't you leave?" said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "Cause I'm pretty sure I saw you do the leaving thing. It was just this morning."

"I didn't say I was leaving for good," said Random. "I just said I wasn't… going… with them." She tore her eyes away from the road for the second time. "With the hunters, I mean. I said I wasn't going with the hunters."

"You didn't miss much," said the Scientist With The Moustache. "Generator packed in about an hour ago."

"I don't think it was because of plot," added the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "It's just an old generator. Oh yeah, another word counter showed up, and-"

"We're coming up close to the twenty thousand mark," cut in The Scientist With The Moustache.

"Overachieving, woo!" The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot did a quick, excited little dance, and held up his hand. Very slowly, and with more then the slightest hint of reluctance, The Scientist With The Moustache gave him what was probably a high five. It was an application of one palm against the other, anyway.

"Who's this?" said the Scientist With The Moustache, looking over at Pilcrowe.

"This," said Pilcrowe, crossing her arms, "is official business." She uncrossed them again to flourish her card at him. "S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency."

"I'd love to say I know who you are," said The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot, "but I don't. Sorry." He sidled up to Random. "What's this about, that friend of yours?"

"Yeah," said Random. "You've got a problem? Look, I know she's a jerk. Just go with it. Now can we get inside before I turn into tonight's boiled dinner?"

 

-

 

"They're not really rude," said Random. "I think they've had just had a long day." _So have I_ , she thought. _Don't make me need to say it._

"I see," said Pilcrowe. She gazed up at the stairs. They were back in the possibly-once-a-bakery on the old lab's ground floor.. The air was still hot and still, but at least it was out of the sun. "So it's up there, is it? Is this what happened to your eyebrow?"

"What eyebrow? Am I - oh, that eyebrow," She stroked her right brow, which had, as of the last few days, existed as a few scattered clumps of red hair. That was another thing you didn't pay attention to at the end of the world. "Yeah, we were doing science. There were explosions. It's a science thing. I think." A lot of things were science things, these days. "Look, it's not important. You don't need to find that as well." She fanned herself with one hand in an attempt to get some circulation in the still air, gave up, and peeled off her lab coat.

"Good idea," said Pilcrowe, untying the belt on her own and handing the whole thing to Random. "Hang on to this while I go upstairs and look, would you?"

 

-

 

The sun was going down again. Random thought she'd have welcomed the respite, but all it did was serve to make the dampness all the colder. She hugged herself, trying to keep the warmth inside, and watched the sunset from the shattered window.

She was lost in her own thoughts when she heard the phone ring. Not a jaunty little tone, but the genuine sound of a phone ringing.

She looked up, The sound was coming from Pilcrowe's coat. Well, let her deal with it then. She closed he eyes, and went back to the huddle.

Wait a minute. How did Pilcrowe have a signal in a post apocalyptic novel?

She immediately set about to rummaging through the coat's pockets. Whoever was on the other end of the line must be very persistent, because the phone was still ringing when she found it. It was the the sleek black anachronistic thing she'd seen Pilcrowe using earlier, yet the detective must have spent a lot of time trying to track down the perfect authentic _briing bring_ sound of a desk phone.

The name on the incoming screen read CEDILLA. Random's breath caught in her throat. The phone rang on.

She could answer, couldn't she? Whatever it was, Cedilla - Cedilla Tildeworth! - must think it was very important to keep ringing for so long. She could at least do the polite thing and take a message.

She tapped the screen and held it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, Sue? That doesn't sound like you. Why am I looking at your ear again? That doesn't look like your ear. I told you about video calls, didn't I?"

Oh. Random pulled the phone away. Tildeworth looked up at her from the screen. "Er, sorry," she said, her legs shaking with the rush.

Tildeworth's brow furrowed. " _You're_ not Sue," she said. "What happened to your eyebrow?" She brightened up. "Oh! You're her client!"

"Yeaaaaah," said Random. "She's upstairs now. Er, did you want me to take a message."

"Oh goodness, no," said Tildeworth. "I just wanted to know if you were doing well. If she's busy, well, that's just… that's good, yes! Very good."

"Oh. I'll tell her you called, yeah? Er, not to sound weird or anything, but how are you calling me? I thought you couldn't make calls into novels."

"Oh, that's simple!" Tildeworth nodded. " _Very_ simple. I'm in the station, and the station can broadcast anywhere see? So all I have to do is hook my laptop up to its signal and I can ride along with it. Of course I'm sure you'd understand that, being a scientist and all?"

"Nnnot really," said Random. Was it just her mind scrambled by the fact that she was talking to _Cedilla great Baty himself Tildeworth_ , or was that one thing her newly bestowed abilities were drawing a blank on? She leaned against the wall to steady herself. The sun was almost gone now, and Tildeworth's face was a bright beacon in the dark. _Going to ruin my night vision_ , she thought, but no, the plot wasn't here any more. No need to worry about zombies. Far more need to worry about not looking like an idiot in front of one of the Nexus' prime celebrities.

"But enough about me!" Tildeworth said. "How about you? Are you okay?"

"Ngh," said Random.

"Oh. Do you need to talk?"

"I wouldn't want to bother you," said Random.

"Oh no, it's not a bother at all. Are you sure you're okay? You don't need to be worried about talking to me, honest. I can get you an autograph, if you want. Or one from the other personifications. I'm sure the Keeper of the Dares would be happy to oblige, and the Validator… well, I don't think it could give you an autograph _as such_ , but I'm sure we could work something out, to be honest I've never seen it _sign_ anything but it's a person like all of us and very nice. Does excellent cupcakes too, you really should try one. Oh, I could even get you an autograph from that _dreadful_ Pep Talker, although why you would want one from _him_ of all people I simply do not know. But I suppose there is no accounting for taste, and he is my brother of sorts so I suppose I'm obliged to think that way about him… oh, there I go _again_ , talking about myself! I do apologise. Listen, I called to see how things were going with Sue, but to be honest I was hoping to speak to you as well."

"You… were?" Random found her tongue slowly, after Tildeworth's monologue. (It was obvious that she ran a talk show.)

"But of course! I think if you're going to be working alongside Sue, I should be getting to know you as well. Don't worry, it's just a friendly call. I won't bother you if you'd rather be left alone."

"Nnn… no, you can talk if you want," Random said. "Just been a long day."

"I expect it has," said Tildeworth. "I keep telling Sue to at least brighten up the office, if she's not going to move it somewhere a little less gloomy, but I think she likes it that way. I will never understand. Are you getting along okay? Not giving each other trouble, are you?"

"It's okay," she said, "She's a little… not like what I expected? Er, sorry, it's just that you've talked about her a lot." _Great,_ she thought. _You just made a stupid comment on Cedilla Tildeworth's love life. You idiot._

"She's something. Isn't she?" said Tildeworth. Her warm smile faded, replaced with the serious, furrowed brow from earlier. "Listen, I don't want to tell you to put up with anything that's making you uncomfortable, but.. Can I ask you something? Can you give her a chance? She's not really a jerk, it's just… this time of year is a bit hard on her, you know?"

"Busy, you mean?"

"Yes, busy. I wish I could be there for her more, but I'm so busy too, when November rolls around. You understand. Don't put up with anything that hurts you. But just give her a chance. There's more to her. I promise you."

"Yeah," Random's eyes flickered up to the ceiling. "Hey, should we really be talking…"

"It's okay," Tildeworth said. "No, really, it's all okay! If she's upstairs that means she's all wrapped up in investigating, and if she's all wrapped up in investigating, that means she's happy. She's doing what she's written to do. Being a detective is deep down in her text, you know, just like being a scientist is deep in yours."

"I don't know about that," said Random.

"Nonsense, I can see it all over you! Oh… are you okay? Is that okay? Oh, look at me. Supposed to personify communications in all their forms. I'm not doing a great job at communicating tonight. Oh well, I suppose I was never written to do _pep talks_ …

"Yeah. Sure, I love being a scientist! I guess I can be one anyway. I mean, I made a zombie antidote from stuff I scavenged at the end of the world, that's pretty scientific, I guess." She twirled a bit of her hair around her finger. It was starting to fluff back up again. "It's just… well, I haven't thought about it so much, but it's really sudden. I haven't even thought about being anything else in days. And suddenly I know all these things I didn't before. I could draw you a diagram of the Kreb's Cycle on the wall right now with a bit of chalk if I had any! If you asked me a week ago I'd have thought that was a type of bike! I mean, it's great and all, but is that… is that normal?"

"What, drawing something that's probably not a sort of bike, given how you state it, on the wall?" said Tildeworth. "I don't know, but this is NaNoWriMo, so I suppose it has to be somewhere. Something's always normal somewhere. You're being rewritten. It happens to everyone. It's what being in a novel is all about."

"Have you ever been in a novel?"

"Oh no!" said Tildeworth. "I never have the time, and I don't even know if I work quite like you. What could I do, get myself rewritten and leave you all with no Communications? No, that simply would never do! But I've met plenty of people who've been through exactly the same thing, and they'll always tell you the same. You're going to be fine. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really. If I'm free to talk, I'm happy to listen. Trust me, I'm used to listening. I'm a little busy now, I'm afraid-" her eyes looked down at the bottom corner of the screen, where the clock must have been on her computer - "I should be preparing for a show soon, sad to say, but I hope you'll be okay. You _will_ be okay, won't you?"

"Yeaaah?" Random said. "Yeah, I think I can." Tildeworth was smiling again, and despite herself and the long day, despite Pilcrowe and the rain and the heat and subsequent cold, and despite her still wet socks, Random couldn't help but return it. There was something infectious about Tildeworth. If she wished you well, you believed it. If she'd never heard of Tildeworth before, if she had no idea who she was until this moment, she would still never hesitate to believe that she was the Personification of Communications. "Thanks."

"No problem. Random Idea Number Forty Two, was it?"

"Yeah."

"I'll see you around. And… if this isn't too personal, I do wish you luck in finding your friend. It must be a lot to shoulder."

"I'll… see you too?" said Random. "And thanks, again. I hope so too…"

 

-

 

In an abandoned lab, above the streets of a shattered town, Pilcrowe crouched over broken floorboards and muttered to herself.

"A trail," she said. "There must be a trail. Everything leaves a trail. It is just a matter of finding it."

She stood up, gazing around the empty room, turning her attention away from the shovel's scar.

"Question," she said, to nobody at all. "How does a Travelling Shovel of Death Travel? Answer… unknown. Blast it."

Bits and pieces, all around her, and not a single one had fallen into place yet. They would, later. You had to let them percolate, like fine coffee, in the back of the mind, and then your characterisation would do the rest. A chance encounter, a song overheard, a picture, anything could tie them all together. Until it did, there was no sense in thinking too hard.

But she would try. It had all been so long since she'd tried.

She ran her finger over the shovel's scar, brought it to her lips, and licked. Nothing.

The sun was going down and the lights were dead. She felt her way around the room as much as looked. Sooner or later, she was going to have to concede defeat.

But not now. Not when everything was just getting started.

 

-

 

"A trace, you mean? Like a biochemical signature?"

"Don't think the Shovel's exactly biochemical, but you're the smart scientist here with all your cleverness. Sorry I left you there," Pilcrowe said. "It's a tough world out there, that's all."

"I'm sure I'm more than a coat stand," said Random. They were walking back up the stairs to the second lab. The sun had gone down, and Pilcrowe's phone lit their way as a jittery spotlight, highlighting the shadows and throwing them into relief. Random took each step slowly, making sure she knew exactly where her feet were before moving.

"I'm only saying," said Pilcrowe. "You haven't existed all that long, and-"

"What was it we said about not trying that again?" Random said, stopping in her tracks so that she blocked Pilcrowe's way. "Because I'm counting what you said there as _that_. No pulling _that_ again. Got that?"

"Mmm. Is there coffee?"

"Coffee?" Random started moving again. "That'd be a great idea, if we had any electricity. I could get a fire going, toss a spoonful in, see what happens."

"Instant," said Pilcrowe, "is not coffee."

"Okay, you find better around here, I dare you. Ugh, maybe we should go back. Plot doesn't need us, we're missing Tildeworth." _And now I really want a coffee_ , she added, in her head.

"No we're not."

"Uh, electricity? There isn't any?" Random stopped at the top of the stairs, and made to open the door. "I mean, I don't know if you noticed, but televisions generally need it. You know, to run? I'm sure that's not too scientific."

"Who said anything about televisions? I've got this, haven't I?" She brandished her phone in front of Random's face.

She blinked at the onslaught of light. Oh. The station signal. Of course. "Yeah, I suppose that'd work. You've got enough battery, though?"

"Why wouldn't I have enough battery? Is something going to happen?"

"Batteries… drain?"

"Do they?"

"What do you mean? They just do! It's a basic scientific fact!"

"Look again." Pilcrowe flipped off the flashlight, and Random was left blinking again in relative dark. She looked as Pilcrowe showed her the phone's home screen, its icons in neat rows against a backdrop of black. "Really look. What do you see?"

The battery icon was full.

"That can't happen, though!" said Random. "I mean, all the things you did… you called out, then I took a call for you, and you've had that light on all this time, and it should have lost something just from sitting there, what do you-"

"It's your first novel," said Pilcrowe. "I'll forgive you for not knowing the rule."

"What rule?"

"The battery rule, what else? No electronic device ever loses charge in a work of fiction. Not unless the plot needs it to."

 

-

 

"And that was the 50K Day group, here in the studio after a long and very well earned sleep! Give them all a big warm round of applause, people! And remember, don't make cheating accusations. Whether you're at five hundred words or fifty thousand or even more, what you have done matters. We would not be here were it not for the existence of NaNoWriMo and the determination of those stories to tell themselves within a month. I can't speak for any of you, of course, but I think I would find drifting in non-existence, without a hope of stories to speak out to, would be rather dull to say the least. Support your existence!"

Three scientists and a detective crouched around a phone screen, the only source of illumination in the dead desert night. Random, sitting at the edge as far from Pilcrowe as she could manage while still seeing the screen, was admittedly only half watching. She listened to what Tildeworth had to say, but her attention kept drifting back to the thought of trails, and biochemical traces, or not so biochemical traces, and phone batteries, and time and time again she found herself looking at the kitchen door. Pilcrowe's mind was not the only one to sit and allow pieces of the picture to bring themselves together with a single thought.

She also had clean socks, which helped a lot more than she thought they would. A famous fictional character once said that you can never have too many socks, and Random had to conclude that he knew what he was talking about.

"In a minute," Tildeworth was going on, "we'll be looking at the latest from Room 7a, and discuss the possibility of where… a hypothetical somebody may find a hypothetical pen. And, perhaps, some less than hypothetical tea. Later on in the show, I'll be discussing the finer points of characterisation whilst balancing pennies on my forehead.

"But not at this exact moment. As much as I would like to talk about the good things in life, and possibly pens and tea as well, I am the personification of Communications, or any communication that is not a pep talk at any rate. That means reporting.

"I have been receiving isolated reports of disappearances, and while I am no detective, a certain someone close to me is. And these reports all seem to be connected to the Travelling Shovel of Death."

Random looked up.

"Now I would love to say it's nothing to be alarmed about! The Travelling Shovel of Death is… well, I have never seen any evidence that it is exactly a _living thing_ , but it is a valued piece of our lore regardless! But it cannot be denied that this is something that must be investigated. Fortunately, there is someone very close to me who is _very_ good at investigating.

"I urge you, all of you, if you have seen the Shovel, if you have any information about these disappearances, if you know anything, at all, please do not hesitate to contact the NaNo Video station. Your co-operation is most encouraged. Your lack of co-operation is not, because that would be rude.

"Thank you for listening to this urgent message from NaNo Video. We now go live to a vaguely L shaped block of pixels."

Random edged closer to Pilcrowe, so that the detective could whisper in her ear.

"Please tell me she said she would call back!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Truth or Dare with NaNoWriMo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pWmTnDpFtg) \- or, the real life version of Tildeworth's pennies stunt. I'll leave it up to you to determine how successful she is.


	6. The Duct Tape Chronicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random gets to doing some more science (of the highly scientific sort, of course), and Pilcrowe investigates. Meanwhile, the Personification of Communications is bad at... well, communicating. Also, there's a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I arted! [Random and Neo](http://leopardcorgi.deviantart.com/art/Random-and-Neo-545604480), pre-sciency stuff.

_Nobel Prize Committee, here I come, right? But whatever works, works. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

The studio lights were dimmed, now, the cameras rolled away. Electricians batted cables across the studio and spat flames at the less co-operative of them. Tildeworth relaxed in her chair in the happy glow of another job well done. Sort of well done, anyway. Well done besides the Camp segment refusing to air, but that was just… technical issues. The show always went on. As she reminisced, a familiar tune drifted into her ears.

"NaNoWriMo… all the time-o…" sang Vicki

"That takes me back," Tildeworth said. She felt a whoosh of feathered wings, and a soft, furry creature deposited herself in her lap.

Vicki Smith was NaNo Video's lead camera operator. She was also a cat. She had turned up shortly after the studio's opening, sitting in the kitchen and staring at the fridge, but Tildeworth was under the impression that this was how cats generally propagated anyway, so she'd seen no reason to ask questions. She'd always suspected the Dare Keeper had something to do with it, but again, she didn't ask. She'd needed a friend after the Business. Circumstances had provided.

"Yes, it just came to me," said Vicki. She fluffed her wings and tail. As well as being a cat, Vicki was also a dare. Her thick, snowshoe patterned coat was complimented by a pair of fluffy, feathery wings in warm brown and white. She began to preen one, licking the shafts back into place. "Was that true? About the Shovel?"

"As much as I know," said Tildeworth. "Which isn't an awful lot, come to think of it. But Sue is on the case, and I'm sure she can do something about it." She twined her fingers through her friend's fur. "Or I hope she can. It's a bit difficult to say when something's a _sure_ or a _hope_ , sometimes. Maybe I hope I'm sure? Oh, here I go again. I really should call her! I don't even think I told her I was going to run that announcement!"

"That might be a good idea." Vicki flowed out of Tildeworth's lap and onto the studio floor. She stretched, front legs first, then back legs, and finally wings. "Do you ever plan anything?"

Tildeworth shrugged and got to her feet. "I'm a personification of NaNoWriMo. I think I'm incapable of not making things up on the spot."

They walked together out of the studio, into one of the main corridors. "I should call. Sue will be wanting to talk to me. I'll see you later?"

"Will do," said Vicki. She spread her wings and leapt into the air like a plain wingless cat chasing a bird, but when she reached the zenith of her leap, she powered herself higher, until she vanished through a hole in the ceiling. That had been there as long as the studio had been around, too. Tildeworth had never been sure why, but she supposed it wasn't anything to do with the Business. She'd had trouble working out what a missing ceiling tile with a printed sign beside it reading NINJA EXIT would have to do with that.

Come to think of it, she'd never seen any ninjas using it. That was odd, even more so given that she should know where it went, and it had occupied her thoughts on the more boring of nights in the past. Then again, it was a ninja exit. They probably wouldn't be very good ninjas if anyone saw them using it.

Satisfied with that explanation, she was about to leave when Vicki's head popped back out of the hole. "Oh, and tell the others! I think this calls for a meeting. And that includes the Pep Talker!"

She was right, Tildeworth thought, as she entered her office. She hoped Sue could deal with this, but if she wanted to be sure, it didn't hurt to have backup.

If Pilcrowe's office was the picture of spartan neglect, Tildeworth's was the picture of chaos, and also pink. The pale rose walls were plastered in photos, of herself and the crew, of herself and friends outside the station, of herself and any number of people she'd struck up a conversation with over the years, which also made them friends. The pictures of Sue, though, were delegated to prime position on her desk. They jostled for space amid paper clips, sticky tape rolls with missing ends, and figurines of various small cute animals, but each one was framed and clean. Her favourite, the one of them standing together on their last anniversary at the Warm Onion, took the best spot by her laptop. They were both smiling, Tildeworth with her best grin, and Pilcrowe with something that you weren't sure was a smile, unless you knew her well enough to know it absolutely was.

She flipped open the laptop, logged in, and opened up a call. (She really had no idea how someone like Sue or Random didn't know how she did it. Detectives and scientists were supposed to be _smart_.)

The phone rang for rather less time than it had before, and when it was answered, Sue was again staring up at her from the laptop screen. She was in darkness, lit only by the phone's light.

"Hello!" Tildeworth said. "How are you d-"

"Cedilla dammit!" yelled Sue. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"What, about the shovel?"

"Of course about the Shovel! I mean… that is not to say… I'd like to have a personal conversation, Cedilla, you know I would, but I… why didn't you say anything? I'd been working under the impression this was an isolated incident."

"It was a last minute addition," said Tildeworth. "An awful lot of the show was. You saw the technical failures we had earlier and… that last minute replacement. And I only got the message right before going on air. If I were you I'd say this was a very recent development."

"Yes, I did see that," said Pilcrowe. "I'm sorry. I should have thought of it."

"Believe me," said Tildeworth, "the last thing I wanted to do was re-air anything titled _Urinal Cakes: Fact or Fiction._ "

"That still leaves the issue of the shovel," said Sue. "And… I do appreciate your help. I'll do what I can to live up to what you said. I only you didn't have so much faith in me sometimes."

Tildeworth sat up in her seat. "Are you having trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." Sue's bottom-lit face suddenly snapped back to purposefulness. "Do you have any records? Calls, letters?"

"I've had some letters through," said Tildeworth. "Excuse me for a second?" She tabbed through a list of open documents, and then back to Sue's face. "Sorry about that. Several emails, more than a few blog comments, and… hold on." More tabbing. "Oh. Oh _dear_. It seems the show might have prompted a few more…"

"Good. I need novels, dates, scenes, anything you have."

"Of course." Tildeworth rubbed her chin. "Do you really think the Shovel is doing these things? I wouldn't want to believe me just because of what I said on TV."

"It's too early in the story. And I don't think what we want has anything to do with what happens."

( _Sometimes it does_ , thought Tildeworth. _On occasion, it does_.)

"But I'll keep it in mind," Sue went on. "It's early days. Anything I'll say now, I'll regret. Don't need any more of that."

"Thankyou," said Tildeworth. She rubbed her fingers against her headset. "What about your scientist friend, anyway? How is she doing?"

"One, she's not my friend. Two, she ran off into the lab. Haven't a clue what she's up to."

"Oh, well, I'm sure it's beyond me. Anyway, I-" Tildeworth's phone buzzed in her pocket. "Oh, give me a moment, would you?" She flicked the screen on, and read the text that popped up. "Hmmm. Seems I'm wanted in relation to that unaired segment. I'm sorry, I don't want to leave you, but there are rather a lot of exclamation marks on here, and… I'm not sure what this emote is. It might be a penguin. I have no idea if that conveys emergencies or not…"

"I think the exclamation marks are enough," said Sue. "You should go. I'll be fine."

"You _will_ be okay, yes?" Tildeworth said, tapping out a quick reply on the phone - _yes, be there in a minute_. "Both of you?"

"I told you before, there's no zombies here at the moment. Of course I will be."

"I worry about things other than zombies, Sue."

"You worry too much." And, for a second, she was an eerily lit double of the photograph by the screen, not smiling unless you knew her well enough to know that she was. "Maybe this will take a little longer than I thought, that's all."

"I hope that's all," said Tildeworth. "But I'm _sure_ you can do it."

 

-

 

Technically, Tildeworth didn't need to employ anyone at all at the station. When she said she didn't think that she worked in the same way as Random, or any of the other characters, it was with an amount of certainty that rivalled her faith in certain detectives. If she gave the command, if she thought hard enough, the station, the airwaves, the networks, they all obeyed her and only her. She was the Personification of Communications. All she had to do was think, and she _was_ the station, she was riding her own waves and reaching into every set in the Nexus and beyond, she ran down optical fibres in a flash of light, to every phone and every computer.

But she preferred not to. It was tiring, it gave her no time for the important things in life, and most of all, it was terribly impersonal. It was good to have company, and what was more, so many of the dares here wouldn't have anywhere else to go. Dares were popular, but even the Keeper of the Dares herself knew there wasn't room for all of them, and so many of them ended up chopped out in the edits later, when the story decided to go in a more serious direction. This way, everyone had something to do, and nobody was overstretched. Besides, they were family, like Vicki. Some of them had been around ever since the Business, and they'd stuck by one another all through it.

It thus turned out that the penguin emote in the last text message was a signature. "Hey there," said the rockhopper, seated by a bank of computers. "I got your reply."

"Thanks for the note, Emma," said Tildeworth. "Sorry I took so long, Personal reasons, you understand. What happened?"

Emma's feathery yellow crest drooped. "It wasn't exactly unairable," she said. "I may not have been entirely honest when I said there were faults."

"What is it?" Tildeworth took a chair in a position that she hoped was out of the way of anything vital. "It's okay, by the way. I was there, and…"

"Yes, I think it was that." Emma scooted over to one of the monitors and hit a button with her beak. "Watch this," she said.

They did.

"No," Tildeworth said. "It wasn't like that. I'm sure it wasn't…"

 

-

 

For the second morning in a row, Random woke before everyone else, rising in the predawn gloom to work by the light of her phone in the kitchen. The ideas were still falling into place, faster and faster. Sleep wasn't an option; they wouldn't let her rest. Tildeworth's chance mention on the previous night's show hadn't interrupted her, but it spurred her into action. She'd backtracked to the old lab and stared at the mark the shovel had left in the crumbling floorboards.

A mass of metal and pipes, strung together with duct tape, sat in front of her now. She hoisted it over her shoulder on broad straps - also duct tape. It was almost done… almost.

She took her phone from the worktop. True to Pilcrowe's word, it hadn't lost a drop of charge since she'd arrived here.

She kept her shoulders steady, letting them bear the weight of the device, and, hardly daring to breathe, slotted the phone into the front.

The machine flared into life. The program she'd typed into her phone, guided by all the strange new knowledge in her head, appeared on the screen, alongside gratuitous spinning graphics.

On the worktop, by the door, there was a thick splinter, taken from the exact spot where the Shovel had fallen. She swiped and tapped over the screen, held the machine in both hands, and hovered its antenna over the wood.

_Ding._

Random smiled.

"What, you've got a microwave now? Last I knew, those didn't run on plot."

"Morning," said Random. She'd given her word to Tildeworth, after all, so it paid to at least try to be polite to Pilcrowe.

"Okay. That's not a microwave."

"It is!" Random protested. "Well, it was. I think I could still make it microwave things, but I'd have to do some testing first and really, maybe I'd rather wait before I start trials on that, better stick to what I made this thing for. Anyway." She hefted the machine up in both hands, stepping out into the sunlit main room so that Pilcrowe could see better. "This is my shovel detector."

"Interesting. What does it do?"

"It detects shovels."

"I did assume that, yes." Pilcrowe took off her thick rimmed glasses and rubbed them against her coat pocket. "How?"

"It's what you said, about biochemical trails! Or not so biochemical trails! That was when I realised, look." She drew up closer so that Pilcrowe could see the screen. "I know it looks like phone jammed into a pile of chopped up kitchen appliances, but that's because it is. But it's also a lot more scientific than that! I haven't done a full scale test, but if I had this running at the scene, we could find the exact novel and jump right in!"

"And you hired me, why?"

"Don't look at me like that!" said Random. "You've got that list of novels, haven't you? What this does is tell you what path the Shovel took. Now that might not mean anything to me, but maybe it would… well, maybe it would to you?"

"Patterns, you mean?" Pilcrowe leaned over Random's shoulder, gazing down at the display showing a positive result. "Patterns, I might be able to make some use of."

"See, that's what I thought!" Random grinned up at her. "I'm a scientist, I do scientist things. But you're a detective, you do detective things."

"I've never heard such nonsense in all my life."

"I don't care, I'm off." Random made for the door. "I can't wait to go full scale!"

 

-

 

Colours flashed, symbols scrolled, and little wire-frame graphics spun on their axis as Random ran the shovel detector across the old lab's floor. She paced back and forth over a square, marked out by Pilcrowe in chalk, that covered the area where the Shovel had fallen after its deadly strike. Pilcrowe and the remaining two scientists stood back, none of them wanting to interrupt the process.

With another characteristic _ding_ , a series of figures scrolled onto the screen. "Here you go," she said, walking back to her little audience. "Does that correspond to anywhere on your list?"

Pilcrowe gave the detector screen the quickest of glances before turning back to scroll down the list of novels Tildeworth had sent along. She'd barely taken he eyes from her phone all morning. "It appears to correspond with the Adventure genre," she said. "But the trail's cold. You should know that."

"It was a while ago," Random admitted, but she remembered the white-eyed hunter's words and carried on. "Okay, how much of a problem is that?"

"For you, a big one. For me, not so much."

 _Somehow_ , Random thought, _I knew that was what you'd say_. Maybe it was for the best. If Pilcrowe felt important, maybe she wouldn't be so touchy. All she knew was that the detector worked. It had established a trail from one novel to the next, with absolutely no intermediate library communications. That sort of thing never happened unless…

Dear Chris Baty, she'd built a prototypical crossover induction device. Pilcrowe could have all the glory she wanted as long as she left Random to her creation.

Pilcrowe herself was back to scrolling through her list, flicking the screen with one deft thumb, staring, flicking it again. The remaining scientists clustered around Random and the detector.

"A working inter-novel transfer detector," whispered the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot in awe. "That is a phone, a microwave, and some tubes, right?"

"And duct tape. You like it?"

"You're really a scientist, then," said the Scientist With The Moustache.

"So… this is really it, is it?" said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot, who was now watching Pilcrowe work.

"Yeah," said Random. "I guess it is, unless we finish up faster than I think, but… look, I have no idea how long this is going on for. And I don't really mind, and that's funny. Not right now, anyway." ( _Outside, though…_ she thought, but that was a different story, and not one she wanted to share.) "Look, if there's one thing I do want to say… I'm sorry I left like that yesterday. But I chose, and, well, I guess I've got to follow through with it now. Sorry I just… left, though."

"Normally I'd say you're pretty mad," said The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot.

"But then we saw the TV last night," finished The Scientist With The Moustache.

"We think you might be on to something," agreed The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "We just wanted to say-"

"Found it," said Pilcrowe.

"…er, goodbye and good luck?" finished The Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot.

The Scientist With The Moustache nodded.

"I guess if I don't get back in time for the heroes, tell them the zombies got me?" She managed a little laugh. "I always did want to be more like Neo." But Pilcrowe was waiting, so after a few handshakes and well wishes, they set off down the stairs.

After that, it was going to be easy. All she had to do was cross the street. There was nothing difficult about crossing the street. Even less so when there weren't any cars to run you down, or leave long trails in the dust, leading far, far into the deep desert, until you could no longer see a thing, but you knew they went on and on, for longer than you could ever know…

"Random."

"What?"

"You're doing that thing again."

She was standing in the middle of the road, in the dust, gazing down at a trail that cut through the desert under a cloudless sky. "The thing. Yes. Look, I'll… I just need to… not be _here_ , I think?"

"Right," said Pilcrowe. "Now you've very kindly told me what you won't take. So I'm going to tell you something in return. If you want to come along, I can't have you doing that thing. I need you to think of that thing, and then not do that thing, because doing that thing is the last thing I need right now. You understand?"

"Y… yeah." Random was poised to move, her feet trying to twist themselves away, but her eyes were still on the road. Just a little more wouldn't hurt, would it?

"I know it's not easy, but that's my rule. Don't do the thing."

 

-

 

The librarian gave Pilcrowe's business card a critical eye. "This is a little unusual," he said, looking from the card to his clipboard.

"Last time I checked, theres no rule says a scientist and a detective can't be in a pirate novel," said Random. "Actually, that would make it even cooler! Could you imagine pirates and scientists and detectives all in a novel together? Because I can, and that would be awesome." The relentless urge to follow the road had ebbed away once she'd left the desert heat. Standing in the cool dusty library interior, lit by the librarian's buzzing form, it didn't seem to matter any more. "So you have to let us in entirely on those grounds."

"Far be it for me to interrupt my client's passionate and, some might say, pressing argument," Pilcrowe added, "but there really isn't a whole lot you can do anyway."

"It's like plot ninjas," Random said. "Only with plot scientists and plot detectives. Think of the wordcount! Anyway, ninjas go wherever they want, so I don't see why we can't too."

"Yes, and they cause a dreadful mess," said the librarian. "This is highly irregular, you know."

"Woordcount…" Random sang.

"…highly irregular buuuuuut I suppose I can do something. Right this way." He dissolved into a bolt of light and zipped across the shelves, while Random and Pilcrowe followed.

"This is as far as I go," said the librarian, when he rematerialised.

"We're right at the door," said Pilcrowe.

"But it's technically accurate, isn't it?" The librarian dissolved into light, slinking back through the shelves with altogether more surliness than Random would have ever attributed to a collection of photons. As he vanished, she thought she could catch, just on the edge of hearing, "…why scientiiiiiists?"

Pilcrowe nudged the door open. It wasn't as smooth as the one leading to Random's novel, and it opened with a long and protracted groan that went on for far longer than it ought to. Only then did Random realise that it wasn't the door at all, but the creak of weathered timbers.

Pilcrowe walked inside first, and Random followed. Immediately on entry she stumbled and flailed for balance, as the floor rose to meet her feet. The door slammed behind her, and the pair were plunged into darkness.

She regained her footing on the unsteady ground. No, not ground. The floor was rolling and heaving under her, the timbers groaning all around in time. The air smelled of salt, and a little of the sort of drink they probably didn't sell in Club Ack! alongside the cocktails, at least not unless a customer showed up with his own living shoulder accessory and the accent to match. "Pirate novel," she said, hefting up the shovel detector and switching on the screen, to be greeted by shadowy barrels taking up the . "Makes sense! We're on a pirate ship!"

"Interesting," said Pilcrowe. "Now what would a shovel be doing on board a ship?"

But the both philosophical and practical discussion of oceangoing gardening implements that would have ensued from this question went unanswered, because at that moment, they were suddenly attacked by ninjas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to type that last line. Sue me!


	7. Not Once More, But Still With Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random and Pilcrowe's investigations bring them to a staple of Novembers past and present. Meanwhile. Tildeworth has some advice for the oncoming storm that is Week Two.

_(Do:) Embrace ridiculous word-count padding tricks if you story has stalled. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

With no time to react, Random caught only a glimpse of dark, lithe shapes in the corner of her eye before she felt a rope lash out and snag her around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides. Pilcrowe fared no better, her coat wrapped around her body so she could barely move. Someone stepped out of the shadows…

"At last we speak on even terms," said the ninja master. "After so long, I have tracked you down, and this time- wait a minute, who are these people? What's going on here?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," said Random. Pressed up against her chest, the shovel detector whirred through its calculations.

"This is a pirate ship," said the ninja master. "When I board a pirate ship, I expect to find pirates. Instead, I find myself face to face with a Scottish girl in a lab coat. Explain?"

"Why are you Scottish, anyway?" said Pilcrowe.

"Why are you English? Shut up and talk us out of this!"

Pilcrowe sighed. "The one with the hair is my client. I represent S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Detective Agency. I would show you my card, but as you seem to have me at a disadvantage, that won't be possible under present circumstances. Might I have your name?"

The ninja master crossed his arms in annoyance (or what was probably annoyance - it was hard to tell with nothing on display but his eyes) "I am honour bound never to reveal my name to the uninitiated."

Pilcrowe glared.

"But if you must know, it's Steve the Ninja."

" _Steve?_ " exclaimed Random.

"No, not Steve!" The ninja master flung his hands in the air. "Steve the Ninja! Don't you see, it's two extra words that way! Oh, forget it. You two, you may as well untie them, they're obviously not from around here."

There was a sudden lack of pressure, and Random felt the blood rush back to her limbs. She rubbed her arms. "Er, thanks," she said, as the two ninja underlings who'd been holding them captive stepped into view.

"We are investigating," Pilcrowe said, smoothing her coat down, "the suspicious movements of the Travelling Shovel of Death."

The three ninjas inhaled, sharply.

"So you understand that this is a matter of some seriousness," Pilcrowe went on.

"Yeah," said Random. "The one with the exposition there is Pilcrowe. That's probably Pilcrowe the Detective to you lot. I'm Random Idea Number Forty Two, which I suppose makes me…" She tapped at the detector screen. "Random the Shovel Researcher."

"Random the Shovel Researcher?" said Steve the Ninja.

"It's one more word than 'scientist'," said Random. And I can do science with shovels if I want. I might be a botanist! Botany is a science."

"Your words are concerning," said Steve the Ninja. "It is true that the Travelling Shovel of Death did visit this ship some days previously. That is not secret information; it is widely known amongst these parts. How can I expect you to honour your words?"

"Er…" Random thought back to the lab. "You don't have a TV on this ship, do you?"

"Oh come on, we're not that anachronistic!" protested Steve the Ninja.

"Thought not." Random nodded to Pilcrowe who, already guessing where this was going, had her phone in her hand. "Fancy watching The Tildeworth Hour tonight?"

 

-

 

The ninjas followed Random and Pilcrowe out onto the deck, where Random shaded her eyes from the sun after so long in relative darkness. The sky was a perfect blue, the sea its mirror, and there was not a hint of land in sight. Quite where the ninjas must have come from she had no idea but it was probably some sort of ninja thing. It was going to be a lot harder to explain what she was doing.

"Uh, hello?" she called out. "Or is it ahoy? Whatever it is, I need to speak to whoever's in charge here!"

("This is literally the worst pirates versus ninjas scene ever," whined Steve the Ninja, in the background.)

 _I used to want to be a pirate_ , Random thought, as she swayed, trying to keep her balance on the rocking deck. Now it didn't seem like such a good idea. She could feel a certain knot of discomfort rising in her throat. Maybe a princess would have been a better idea after all. Could you be a scientist princess? No, maybe a plain scientist would be best. She'd focus on that, not the jarring sensation between the ship and the waves.

"Steve the Ninja?" roared an unseen voice. "That be you, skulking around my ship like the rat you are?"

"He's brought company along, and we'd like to speak to you." Pilcrowe, standing with her hands tucked neatly being her back and her coat waving artfully in the sea breeze, didn't care one bit about harsh sun or unnatural movements.

"Look, I'll handle this," said Steve the Ninja. "I may as well do _something_ here. Yes, Captain Frederick, it's me. I'm afraid there's been a bit of an… interruption?"

"On MY ship?" Captain Frederick, or whatever his name was, was exactly the sort of person who would get served from the speciality drinks menu at Club Ack! if he ever turned up. "Who dares cross me, Mad Capt'n Frederick, of the-"

"Fred the Pirate, we get it," said Random. _Don't look at the sea. Whatever you do, don't look at the sea..._

"Oh, great," said Captain Frederick, now Fred the Pirate by consensus of just about everyone else, and suddenly devoid of accent. "You try so hard to get into the spirit of things, and _this_ happens. Why are you on my ship again? What sort of sense am I supposed to make of a.. a.."

"Scientist," said Random.

"Detective," added Pilcrowe.

"Right, right," said Fred the Pirate. "What sort of sense am I supposed to make of a scientist and a detective turning up on my ship? My pirate ship? Ninjas I can handle, but this is going too far!"

"Wordcount?" offered Random. _Don't think of the sea. Think of molecules. Nice happy molecules. I'm happy. I'm thinking of molecules. Arginine, histidine, lysine…_

"I've been asking the exact same thing," said Steve the Ninja.

"Oh shut up, Steve, nobody asked you!" snapped Fred the Pirate.

"Well," said Steve the Ninja, folding his arms in indignation, "if you're going to be like that-"

"Can we move on to the point?" said Random, who was staring at the deck, wishing it wouldn't move so much, and holding up a hand for silence. Scientifically speaking, she knew that all that was happening was a disconnect between her visual and kinaesthetic senses, causing her brain to interpret the inconsistent signals as the effects of a powerful toxin, and thus take appropriate measures to deal with it. Scientifically speaking, this did nothing whatsoever to help.

"S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency," said Pilcrowe. Random couldn't see much beyond her feet at this point, but she knew the business card was doing extra duty to make up for its earlier absence. "The point being that we are tracking the movements of the Travelling Shovel of Death, and I would like to speak to anyone who might have any information in relation to its whereabouts. In particular, you."

"Travelling Shovel of Death, eh? Well you're right in that, it did pass here a while ago. And what a shovel was doing on my ship I don't know! I mean, there's deliberate anachronisms for amusement value, and then there is simply pushing it. Pushing it, I say. Well it all happened when-"

 _…alanine, valine, isoleucine, leucine, methonine…_ Random ran to the rails, leaned over the heaving sea, and the biology lesson turned into a practical demonstration.

That settled it. Being a scientist was way better than being a pirate.

"Arrr, the sharks be drawing near now," said Fred the Pirate. But it was clear his heart wasn't in it any more.

 

-

 

As luck would have it, the shovel murder (of Fred's first mate, now known in these circles as Dave the Former Pirate) was below decks, so Random didn't have to deal with the sea. She could still feel it under her feet, but without that visual disconnect, it was perfectly easy to deal with the motion. Quite relaxing, in a way.

She ran her scanner over the area and picked up the next co-ordinates, while Pilcrowe questioned the witnesses - in other words, Fred the Pirate. He looked about to complain to begin with, but one look from Pilcrowe shut him up.

Engrossed in her own work, Random left them to it. The co-ordinates that came up on screen proved what she had suspected - that this shovel death had come straight after Neo's. If only they had a more recent trail to work with, one that would show better links! They could practically catch the Shovel in the act! All these years it had been as random as… well, as her name. But what about now? She imagined Tildeworth on screen, saying in her most pleasant voice, "And now, the shovel forecast."

No, she had to think of the task at hand. But when they found Neo, he was never going to shut up about this, either. The fact that he hadn't done it himself didn't matter. His friend, his practically a sister, had invented the first Travelling Shovel of Death Detector. He'd even shut up about dying from the shovel over that.

She might not know where he was, but she knew exactly what he would say. That was what being friends was all about.

 

-

 

It is well known that a detective needs only a single glance to tell the life story of their subject. The way someone looks at you or those around them, how they move, what clothes they wear, could be critical. They picked it up in a second, and their minds pondered over the results.

Pilcrowe rested her chin over her folded hands, and stared at the duo in front of her. Somewhat embarrassingly, all she could pick up on was that she was talking to a pirate and a ninja, and that they both had issues.

She tried not to think too hard about it. "Can you describe to me the scene?"

"Aye, t'was the morning of… that is to say we were in port and _someone_ decided it was a good idea to board my ship without asking. I don't call that very polite, but some people simply have no manners. Don't they, Steve?"

"Oh shut up, Fred," snapped Steve the Ninja. "I'm only incidental to this story. I don't even know what I'm doing here."

"I can wait all day." Pilcrowe unfolded her hands and gazed at her nails.

"I'm sorry, but some people love to interrupt," said Fred the Pirate.

"Do go on, then," said Pilcrowe. She'd taken over the captain's cabin, all the better to immerse herself in her subject's mind, though yet again, there wasn't much of any use here. She simply sat at his table and stared out at the pair as they sat before her like a pair of children called in for A Stern Word With Teacher.

"Okay, so, we're in port and Steve here decides to attack-"

"We got a lot of words out of that scene and you know it!" protested Steve the Ninja.

"-so then there's this battle. All epic, lots of jumping and climbing and sliding down the sails and all that," Fred the Pirate went on. ( _Possibly the smarter one_ , Pilcrowe noted to herself, in the depths of her mind. _Needs more investigation._ ) "Look, do you need a drink or anything?"

Ah, here came the bribes. "It's rum, isn't it?"

"It's hardly going to be champagne!"

"In that case," said Pilcrowe, "I think I'll pass. It seems that nobody knows the value of a good coffee any more, but I can't say I expected to find one here. Now do go on."

"So Dave… er, Dave the Pirate, right, he's fighting away alongside me, but these masked buggers keep getting out of the way all the time."

Steve the Ninja cleared his throat in amusement. "Clearly not understanding the way of the-"

"Shut up, Steve, it's my ship and it's my story! So we're all focused on his lot, and out of nowhere there's this shovel, just flying out of the air, and claaang, it's right on Dave the Pirate's head. And he falls over, just like that. Haven't seem him since, though I suppose it's a long way to swim up from the bottom of the sea."

"At the bottom of the sea?" said Pilcrowe.

"It's not as if we could keep him on board," said Fred the Pirate. "That's what you do when you're a pirate, doesn't anyone know these things? Anyway, he'd have found his way back."

"Idiots!" snapped Pilcrowe. "Everywhere I look, idiots, the lot of you! Does nobody ever hold on to a body any more? None of you ever stops to think 'oh hey, someone might need to see some evidence'? No, clearly you don't share my priorities." She took off her thick rimmed glasses, and rubbed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she listened to the silence that ensured, woven with the squeak and groan of the ship's timbers, that took on an echoing quality this deep within.

"Don't look at me," said Steve the Ninja. "I didn't have anything to do with it. How is it my fault that I was the last person at the scene of the crime?"

Pilcrowe looked up, sliding her glasses back on. _Probably honest,_ she thought. _Doesn't looks like he has a reason to participate in anything deadly. Doesn't look capable of it._

"Well, my thanks anyway for your input," she said. "You're both free to go whenever you like. I'd say wherever you like, but that's not very far right now. But go on, go. I'll take another tour around the scene. Oh, and another thing, both of you?" She leaned forward. "Do yourselves both a favour and kiss already."

 

-

 

That night, deep in the hold as the ship swayed in the dark, a handful of pirates, three ninjas, one detective, and one scientist all sat around a phone screen.

"..and we'll be hearing more from the Knight of NaNoWriMo as the month goes on. Now viewers, I don't like to assume the worst, and I certainly don't like to be _sure_ of the worst, but as your friendly impartial news source in these parts, it is my duty to remind you all of the oncoming Week Two."

Pilcrowe's fingers tightened around the phone.

"Now we hear about this every year," Tildeworth went on, "but the sentiment is always, _always_ the same. Some of you will no doubt be dancing into Week Two. Some of you may even have surpassed your fifty thousand word target! Those of you who ran the Fifty K Day may be waking up and thinking 'oh Tildeworth, what are you talking about? That happened at six in the morning! And what's going on, anyway? I just woke up!' And I salute you, brave storyteller.

"But there are many of us who will not have that fortune, those of us who will struggle in the days to come, and I beg you three words. No, not those words. Not those words either, as they were recently deemed far too terrifying for evening television. The three words are: _Don't give up_.

"Now I am no… pep talker… but allow me to say this. You may well struggle in the following week. You may well wish you had never embarked upon this journey, especially if you happen to find yourself in mortal danger yet again. But look back, viewers! Look at everything you've done and… depending on your quality levels, you may well be ashamed. You probably _will_ be ashamed. You will wonder what in the name of Chris Baty possessed you to do such a thing. You will throw yourself to the ground and howl in despair at how dreadful, and I mean _dreadful_ , your plot really is!

"As I said, I am not a pep talker. Nor would I dream of being one.

"But look back again, and what do you see? Words. Many, many words. It doesn't matter if you've reached the required twelve thousand, five hundred word mark by the end of tonight, though I must say you'd be doing yourself a lot of favours by getting a move on. But you got this far, and maybe, just maybe, if you don't keep on finding yourself in mortal peril, you will pass through the storm that is Week Two and make it outside. What you will find there, I can't tell. Hope it's a good one!

"And remember, if NaNoWriMo really has eaten your soul, _we can't help_. This is a television studio. We don't deal in souls."

"Hey, hold that screen steady, would you?" said one of the pirates. "Can't see a thing on there."

"And the three words aside, let me offer you four more!" Tildeworth went on. "You are not alone! Should you wish to share your pain via, for example, the art of constrained poetry, I am pleased to announce that Saturday night is Suck Haiku night at the Suck Club. Free drinks for the best one! Or possibly the worst. It's hard to tell. If you would rather simply bemoan your fate with others, then the Spork Room is always open for tissues, hugs, and… well, sporks, I suppose, though what the latter are meant to do has always eluded me. Perhaps someone could enlighten me some day. Now I think we could all do with a good-"

"Could you hold on to this?" Pilcrowe pushed the phone into Random's hands. "It's getting a little stuffy down here."

 

-

 

It wasn't Tildeworth's fault, Pilcrowe reminded herself. It wasn't anyone's fault, not really.

The wind was out tonight, blowing over the deck and ruffling her hair out of place. She tried to smooth it back, but gave up when the wind undid all her work in seconds. She'd fix it ack below decks, or wherever it was they were going tonight. There didn't seem to be much else to do here.

Not in this light, anyway. The moon and stars shone bright overhead, but the only meaningful illumination was the lanterns fastened to the deck. But it was calm, and with nothing to light the water but a brilliant silver trail, it was easy to forget where she was and what she was doing. She was breathing deeply like Tildeworth had once said to do, taking in huge lungfuls of salty air. Maybe she'd stay here a while.

"Hey you up there? Show's over. You want your phone back?"

No such luck.

"Since you're obviously here now, I may as well take it," Pilcrowe turned away from the sea, to see Random climbing out of the hold.

"Okay, here you go," Random held it out as she approached, and Pilcrowe took it back, checking for any calls. Nothing so far. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"As long as it's not about me," said Pilcrowe.

"Wasn't going to ask about you," said Random. She was standing like a nervous surfer, arms part raised, not sure if the water was about to leap out and swallow her. "Look. I figure whatever it is brings you out up here isn't any of my business."

"That's good to know." Pilcrowe pocketed the phone and reclined against the rail. "Because it isn't. So I take it you're going to ask me something about either yourself or Cedilla, or possibly the people below decks, though what conclusions they come to are entirely between them. So I will hope it is about yourself, or Cedilla. At least, I will hope it is about yourself."

"When I was out on the road..." Random began. She was looking to the rail - just a quick glance, one most others wouldn't have caught, especially not in that light. Pilcrowe hoped she'd make this quick, for her own sake if nobody else's. "That thing that happened."

"The thing I said not to do?"

"You didn't say I couldn't talk about it!"

"That is fair," Pilcrowe admitted. "Go on."

"What was it? It happened a couple of other times before, and only when I was on the road. I tested, you see. That's what a scientist does. A scientist wonders if that happens every time. And I don't know what it was, but I think you know, else why would you tell me not to do it?"

Pilcrowe looked away from Random, out over the otherwise empty deck. "It's nothing important. Not unless you plan on going back there."

"Why should that mean I don't get to know? It's those main characters, isn't it? They said I could come with them, and I said no and went to find you instead. I think it's because I was meant to go with them. Like, did you see how Mr Ian Woon talk about how sometimes he thought the story loved him? And it's not nothing important, because I came up here to ask you and given that I'm a few minutes away from another biology demonstration, I think you ought to say something!"

"You went to find me instead of going with them?" Pilcrowe shoved her hands into her pockets. They were deep and voluminous, all the best to hide clenched fists. She felt like a knot, tied all through her body. "Why would you even - yes, that's what it is. The story wanted you there, and you wanted to be there, so you're feeling it tug on you when you go back to that spot. That's all. It happens. It won't happen if you don't go there any more. Are you happy now?"

"Okay," Random said. She backed off, hands held out before her. "Sorry if I hit a nerve, I thought that was it anyway. I mean, if you're sure it won't happen unless I go back there-"

"It won't. You'll probably have a lot of stupid regrets anyway, but there's not much you're going to do about those, and I'm not doing anything about them for you."

"Remember what _I_ said about not doing _that_ thing?" Random stopped, tried to get her footing as a particularly energetic wave rocked the ship. "Anyway I... er. Hold on a minute. Can I just interrupt?"

Pilcrowe didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. Random heaved and, for the second time that day, ran to the rail and tipped her head over the side. Pilcrowe stayed exactly where she was, staring out ahead, not even listening to the retching beside her.

"Go right ahead," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may never achieve the longstanding dare that is to title a chapter "Once More With Pirates" but I came close. Close...


	8. The Cupcake Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark days. Vital meetings. Looming enemies. And cupcakes.

_Peeking at Week Two's pep talk while you're still exploring the exciting terrain of Week One will cause strange and disquieting rifts in the temporal fabric of the universe, and may needlessly jeopardize the lives of everyone on this planet. Be a responsible global citizen and take the chapters one week at a time. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

The morning sun was rising late as usual over the Nexus, as Tildeworth walked across the square. As an evening broadcaster, her day wasn't supposed to start this ridiculously early. It was practically noon, for Chris Baty's sake, and she hadn't had one cup of tea all day. But business was important today, so she was prepared to sacrifice a few necessities. Under her arm was tucked her laptop, held snug inside a pink case. In her pocket, a flash drive contained the Camp footage.

She was heading in a straight line toward the library, when a terrible howling cut through her ears. It was quiet at first, a distant and otherworldly bay that, even if she wasn't in in her presently sleep deprived state, Tildeworth would have classified as nothing. But it grew louder, interspersed with the mix of claws on stone and wing beats through the air, as if whatever it belonged to couldn't decide to run or fly and had opted for some disjointed mix of the two.

She turned. Something small, tan and white and black, blurred with speed, was heading toward her...

"Awooooo! Wooooooooo! Woooooooooooo!"

And then...

"Kevin! _Kevin!_ My sister is allowed to exist!"

It was worse than an otherworldly howling beast. It was her brother.

Or her opposite, or her counterpart, or whatever you wanted to call him. It wasn't as if he looked anything like her, and he was still some distance away, chasing his... whatever it was. As the creature drew closer, she could see that it was a beagle, baying with all the breath he could muster, with the exception that beagles didn't normally come with a set of black, tan, and white wings that they used to propel themselves even faster along the ground and through the air.

He stopped, and bayed again, before looking at her with an expression that suggested that he was trying to work out what was in front of him and whether it required more noise. "Hello!" he said, at last, balancing on his hind legs and fluttering his wings to keep himself stable. "My name is Kevin! You are my friend now!"

"Um," said Tildeworth. Of course if a winged beagle suddenly wanted to be friends with her, that was no problem, but it did raise a lot of questions.

"I love having friends!" said Kevin, who had now gotten back onto all fours and begun wagging his tail at top speed, as well as the rest of his rear half in case the tail wasn't enough. "Friends make me happy!"

"I suppose you're on your way to the meeting, Macron Brevewin," Tildeworth said, ignoring the beagle and using her counterpart's full name. "What a lovely surprise."

"For the last time, you shrimp, I'm didn't take your lucky pen, and I wouldn't even go anywhere near room 7a!" Macron Brevewin, the Pep Talker, Third Personification of NaNoWriMo, did not look, to the casual observer, as if he was related to Tildeworth, but since the pair of them had materialised years ago from the fabric of the November Gardens as counterparts and opposites as well as siblings and representations of their respective domains, it didn't matter. He was tall, dark, probably handsome though Tildeworth wasn't qualified to say, and never went anywhere without his faithful megaphone in his hands, the better to spread the word during his shows.

The winged beagle, on the other hand, was a new development. "Are you trying to copy me?" she said, as he pranced and fluttered around her feet, so happy about his new friend that he didn't seem to care that she wasn't paying him any attention.

"No! Why would I want to copy you? This is just my sound engineer. Kevin Jones, meet Cedilla Tildeworth, and I apologise in advance. Look, we have some important business to be doing, so is there any possibility you could go off and help set up my stage for tonight?"

"Of course!" Kevin's ears perked at the sound of Brevewin's voice, and he shot into the air.

"You are _so_ copying me," said Tildeworth.

"Am not," said Brevewin. "He's a dog, and he works sound. Besides, why would I want to copy from you?"

"Because it's better than being you."

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

They glared at one another, Tildeworth holding her laptop close, Brevewin standing with his megaphone in hand, fingers clenched around the handle.

Tildeworth was the first to crack. "Eheheheh..."

Brevewin grinned, and nudged her in the ribs.

"Do you think we should tell people someday that we don't actually hate one another?" Tildeworth said.

"I think they've already worked it out," said Brevewin. "Anyway, everyone knows you're incapable of hating anyone or anything."

"That is true, that is," said Tildeworth.

They set off together down the square toward the library's imposing facade, neither of them speaking for a while. Brevewin kept more flexible hours than Tildeworth, for sure, but even he didn't like a morning start. But if they were both to make their shows that night (and both would, because they were professionals, Baty damn it) it means wrapping things up as early as possible. And Vicki had been right, too. This had to be brought to everyone's attention, and fast. It didn't stop her from yawning as she approached the first of the library's broad stairs.

"You okay there?" said her brother.

"Fine, fine," she said. "Was up a little longer than I should have been last night. Sue's on a case, you know? The shovel thing. It's taking a while, and I haven't seen her in days except over the phone..."

"Sorry about that," said Brevewin, and Tildeworth felt a steady hand on her shoulder.

"Thanks," she said. It was early enough there weren't many people about to see, but she didn't care if they did. She only wished she could have been a bit more honest with him. It didn't stop her from thinking she should have been more careful, maybe called in advance to warn Sue. But she kept the guilt to herself, because Sue didn't need it, not after what happened. She'd returned that night to a home that felt emptier than ever. "And I really should call more often..."

"Is everything... okay with you?"

"Yeah, we're okay. No _us_ problems, if that's what you mean, just personal things. That's the thing about love, I suppose. Even when you're in a story, it doesn't fix everything."

When the doors opened to let them in, she spotted a few characters wandering around, or being guided to their destinations by crackling librarians. None of them approached her or Brevewin. They had their own destination, deep within the shelves. Tildeworth had always known that, much like the November Gardens, the library's interior occupied a rather larger space than its exterior, growing year on year as more novels added themselves to its depths. It probably explained something about the librarians, if they had to keep filing an ever increasing number. Nowhere was this tangled interior more evident than here. It took longer than it did to cross the square than it did to reach the double doors leading into the meeting chamber. Each of them was at least twice her height, built of dark red-brown wood into which the helmet and shield emblem had been carved, and then polished and lacquered to a brilliant sheen. They'd passed two more sets in giant glass cases on their way here - one carved with the runner and pencil that Tildeworth remembered from the earliest days of her existence, and another with a typewriter that pre-dated her, though Brevewin remembered. Pep talks were old.

She nudged the door open. Her footsteps echoed over a floor tiled in a mosaic of pale blue, creamy white, and rich brown. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the phantom keystrokes of a million stories being written, just out of earshot…

"Hello dears! Would you like some cupcakes?"

"Ooh, cupcakes!" Brevewin ran on ahead, and Tildeworth followed with haste. Sure enough there, on the long table in the centre of the room, was a broad plate with a display of cakes in every colour Tildeworth could think of. By their side was the second personification, the Keeper of the Dares, who stood and smiled at them like a grandmother treating her favourite charges. Tildeworth picked one up. It was bright blue, and tasted of raspberries, prompting he to wonder who thought raspberries ought to be blue.

"These are great," said Brevewin. "You made these?"

"Oh no, no, I'm far too busy looking after all the dares to do any baking these days," said the Keeper. "The Validator made them."

The first of the personifications was looming over the table now. A great swathe of blackness, as though someone had turned out the lights in the far end of the room and the remaining ones didn't want to cross any boundaries, filled the space remaining. The Validator was a cold and ancient thing from the depths of history, there at the dawn of time when the magical fifty thousand word goal had sprung from the nebulous minds of the storytelling sphere. A dark being of ever so tangible shadows, it slipped through the cracks from novel to novel, following its robotic word counting children, bestowing blue and green at the start of the month, turning to purple for the hallowed winners. In all her existence, across the many and varied beings of the Nexus, Tildeworth had never met any so deep and unfathomable as the Validator.

"Awesome cupcakes, Validator!" said Brevewin.

"Mmm," Tildeworth swallowed a mouthful of raspberry icing. "Really good! Thanks!"

A taste of blue spread across her tongue. Not the strange, raspberry flavour from the cakes, but a taste that came unbidden, a synasthesic riot in her mouth, the pure taste that she knew, without any prompting, as the favour of blue.

"You're welcome," she said, and laid her laptop on the table. It was low and oval, made of the same dark red-brown, polished wood as the doors, and circled around the edge with bands of cream, brown, and pale blue to match the floor mosaic.

Around the table were three chairs and a space cleared to allow the Validator, a being that did not require such concerns, to rest. In the centre, placed upon an embroidered cushion, was the Helmet of Speaking, its plastic helm sprayed with gold paint and its horns trimmed with a ruff of tatty faux fur. The Dare Keeper nodded to Tildeworth as they all sat down, and, at her prompt, Tildeworth took up the helmet and spoke.

"I, Cedilla Diane Tildeworth, Fourth Personification of NaNoWriMo, master of Communications and Podcasts, and host of the rather well respected evening NaNo Video production _The Tildeworth Hour_ , call this meeting," she said.

"Macron Hallgren Brevewin, Third Personification of NaNoWriMo, official Pep Talker and host of some pretty good outdoor shows if I do say so myself."

"Marni Woon, Second Personification of NaNoWriMo, Keeper of the Dares, coordinator of all Adoptions, Progenitor of The Travelling Shovel of Death and Mr Ian Woon."

(a sky blue sensation on everyone's tongues, lingering and fading with a slightly azure aftertaste.)

"Right, that's that done with," said Tildeworth, who had unzipped the case while everyone was speaking and opened her laptop. She didn't plug it in. There was no need to here. "Now you might have been made aware of the technical failure in a recent broadcast which meant that we had to cancel, at the last second, one of our planned segments for my show."

"Someone had a screeeew uuup," chanted Brevewin.

"Shut up, Brevewin." Tildeworth inserted the flash drive. There was a little _bloink_ noise as the computer detected it.

"Sooomeone had to run a film on urinal cakes!"

"Shut up, Brevewin. You don't have the helmet. I have the helmet. Ah, now here we go. I've studied the footage along with my best video editors and… well, it is viewable, but it didn't show exactly what we expected. Take a look."

Three humans and one cloud of darkness gathered around the screen as Tildeworth hit the play button. Her voice emanated, somewhat tinny sounding, from the cheap speakers as she talked about Camp NaNoWriMo and the importance of supporting events outside of November, while gripping her microphone tight in the event of another Block Ness Monster sighting. The clip played on… and the screen flickered.

"You see that?" Tildeworth said, hitting the pause button. Brevewin and the Keeper exchanged glances, and Tildeworth caught a rather navy flavour on the tip of her tongue. "It's grey, all grey. Not a glitch in the cameras either. I checked them all myself, to be sure." That had been a long day, too. "No, there was something there. I think I saw it after an earlier take too, but we didn't have footage of that moment because I'd just had my microphone eaten… look, it's a long story, okay?"

"Blockie?" said Brevewin.

"Yeah. Now watch for a few more seconds.." She played the film again, and stopped, just as she saw the movement in the cabins behind her. "There, that shape at the window. You see it?"

Brevewin held out his hand, and Tildeworth removed the helmet and passed it to him. It settled neatly onto his short hair as he spoke. "Yeah, I see it. Like a hood from a robe, all in grey." He tapped the screen with a finger at the spot in the cabin. "Funny to see someone in Camp this time of year. Could be a Dementor? Auditor? Hooded figure? Got itself lost on the way to the fanfic section. Really lost." He removed the helmet, and handed it back to Tildeworth.

"Oh, I thought of that," Tildeworth said. "And if I'd seen it properly, then I'd have been more than happy to give directions back to the library! Even a lift there! But I'm afraid not. I didn't know it was there, until I ran the film. And I'm afraid after this point the signal degrades entirely, so there's not much sense in going on unless you really like looking at static. And yes, I did check that too, thank you. It's plain natural white noise. No alien signals, no disturbing psychic transmissions from the dead, nothing. I do all my checks, you know. I am a _professional._ "

She took a deep breath, and grabbed a minty green cupcake from the display. A little more sugar was exactly what she needed, and she nibbled at the icing before continuing.

"Though I'm afraid the part about my not knowing it was there before then might have been a little inaccurate," she went on.

Two pairs of eyes and one mass of darkness were trained upon her with every word.

"Well, I didn't see it. But on the take before that, there was a failure, and… and then I didn't see anything, but I _felt_ it. You know how it is, when you think something's behind you and then it isn't? It felt like that.

"Now you might be saying 'Tildeworth, there's nothing unusual about entities that cause ghostly presences!' and I'd be entirely with you. But it made me feel something else too. It was as if I'd done something wrong, myself. I stumbled. This wasn't an outtake, I mean… I thought I was the most _dreadful_ broadcaster who ever dared to exist. And I mean that _seriously_ , people who will not be named but might be sitting nearby and have some relation to me! No… it was gone in a second. A creeping dread across my very core, as if I were to be plunged into darkness and it was all I deserved… and then it was gone and the Block Ness Monster had eaten some very valuable broadcasting equipment."

She took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and put the half eaten cupcake down. "I think I know what it is." She laid her hands flat on the table. "I think it's an Inner Editor."

In the silence that followed, she removed the helmet one more time, and returned it to its position on the cushion.

Nobody took it, for a while. Nobody wanted to be the one to say "That's impossible," or "Don't be ridiculous, Inner Editors don't congregate unless there's a plot going on," because nobody wanted to be the one to inevitably find themselves on an Editor's hit list. Editors might have preferred to strike at individual plots rather than something as high level and abstracted as a Personification, that was true, but you never knew.

Or was that it? Were they trying to find out how to voice their concerns in a polite way? Did they think that what she'd seen was nonsense, that she was interpreting patterns on a screen?

That was how it had felt at the filming, too. The way something had opened her up, just for a second, and told her that maybe, she ought to be doing something that wasn't so useless, so full of failure…

Yes, that was exactly how she felt. When she looked up, Brevewin had the helmet again.

"You know," he said, "I don't want to say this, but I believe you…" He laid it down again.

Now the Keeper of the Dares took it. "I've seen many Inner Editors over the years," she said, "and from what you've told me, and what you've said, I have no reason to doubt at the moment, that this is an Editor."

The helmet vanished into the darkness. There was a sustained taste of indigo peppered with cornflower over Tildeworth's tongue, and then the helmet clattered back onto the table. It was covered in a thin rime of hoar frost that immediately sublimed as she watched.

"…Thank you…" she said.

"You didn't really think we wouldn't believe you, did you?" said Brevewin. He touched the helmet, as if not quite sure if it would burn his fingers off. "Editors do show up every year, that's why we have removal specialists."

"He's right you know," said the Keeper of the Dares, placing the helmet back on her white hair. "The concern is here that it appeared in an unusual area, do you say?"

Tildeworth nodded. "Yes," she said, "if you'll forgive me." She accepted the helmet when the Keeper held it out to her. "Thanks. Now you're all aware that there's this ongoing issue with the Travelling Shovel of Death related disappearances? I've been keeping on top of these… I mean, I'm not a detective or anything, but my girlfriend is! She's a very good detective, too, so I like to think I might know a little. And I wondered if they might be linked." She held out the helmet to anyone who wanted it.

The Keeper accepted it. "Now that I'm not so sure about that," she said. "The Travelling Shovel of Death is the natural enemy of the Inner Editors. All dares repel an editor. They long to destroy their nonsense, yet conversely they fear them. Dares, in a high enough concentration, are the best Editor repellent there is. The good old things are sometimes the best."

The helmet vanished again, and there was an appreciative taste of cobalt.

Tildeworth watched the shadows unfurl from it, and picked it up. Nothing exploded, so she put it on her head. "I still plan to tell her." That was the problem with being the Fourth Personification. Everyone else thought they knew better just because they were the Third or Second or First. You never got any respect when you were the youngest. "I didn't want to discredit the possibility that they might _not_ be interconnected. Sue always said that you should never discredit something until you're sure you can, and…" She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "Listen, I'll be broadcasting a message regardless. This _is_ Week Two. You can never be too careful. At least that's what people say. Just before falling over cliffs, I find, but maybe they didn't take their own advice seriously! Look, my point is this. There are some people who deny the existence of the second moon, and it's best not to be like them, because I am afraid I must call them _idiots_." She took of the helmet, and planted it firmly in the middle of the table, waiting to see who'd pick it up after that.

"Actually," said the Keeper of the Dares, placing it back on her own head, "I don't see why not. If people are afraid of the Travelling Shovel of Death, I see no reason why they wouldn't be more open to an Editor attack. Anything the two of you could do to boost everyone's spirits can't hurt, I'm sure."

 _I'm not sure this is just about everyone's spirits_ , thought Tildeworth. But she said nothing, and picked up where she had left off with the mint cupcake instead.


	9. I've Been Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA: The One With The Giant Space Robots

_Suspend judgement and give yourself plenty of room to play, explore, and make interesting messes. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

The librarian crackled into form.

"Please state nature of- oh, it's _you_ again. What do you want now?"

 

-

 

The doors around here didn't look like the ones from before. Those had been battered old wooden things. These were gleaming metal, or other materials that Random couldn't put a name to, slick white or black barriers. The one she wanted opened with a faint whoosh of dispelled air as she stepped up.

"Wow," she said, as she looked around. There really wasn't anything else to say.

The space they'd walked into was as big as a hanger - no, bigger, stretching off so far into the distance that she could barely see either end. Through a lattice of crystalline glass many stories high, she could see the vista of space. The investigators stood amongst a riot of stalls and shops, lurid advertisements and insectoid vehicles skittering over the ground and through the air.

"I hope this doesn't mean you're going to lose any more meals," said Pilcrowe.

"I'm seasick, not space sick," said Random. "Can't you be a bit happier?" She held her hands close to her chest and started hopping up and down on the spot. "This is so cool! We're in space!"

"Yes, I had assumed as such," said Pilcrowe. "I do happen to be observant. It's a requirement of the job."

"But we're in _space!_ And look, if I was going to lose any more meals, I'd have to eat some first." Mixed in with the filtered, slightly lemon scented air, she could smell cooking. "Let's get food! What kind of food do you think they serve in space, anyway?"

"I'll be happy if they have coffee."

They walked on, ducking an owl shaped vehicle that swooped in the air over their heads, and soon found themselves at the nearest stall. No matter where humanity went, it was evident that a need for caffeine and prepackaged sandwiches would always follow.

"Bob's Awesome Coffee Shop," Pilcrowe said, reading from the smiley faced sign overhead. "Part Of The Bob Corp Family. It'll have to do." She strode over to the till, brandishing a brown travel mug that she'd pulled from the depths of her coat. Random caught a glimpse of a helmet and shield crest on the side, with the word AUTHOR printed below it. "You there. One coffee, and I'll take it in here."

"Hello!" said the perpetually smiling attendant. "We offer a wide range of Bob's Awesome Coffee drinks, themed to suit your needs! What cam I offer you today? We do Bob's Awesome Americano, the Bobbachino, and our special, the Bob's Espresso Experience! There's no need to sleep when you've been stung by the BEE!"

Pilcrowe slammed the travel mug on the counter. "Coffee. Black."

"…Yes, of course. Right away."

Minutes later, Pilcrowe was drinking her plain black coffee with what Random had to assume was a smile, and now it was her turn at the till. "Hi. Got a bacon sandwich? Need something to wake me up today."

"Excuse me?" The attendant wasn't smiling any more, but that was just Pilcrowe's doing.

"Bacon? You got like, a roll or something?"

"I'm sorry, what's bacon?"

"What do you mean, what's bacon? You know, _bacon_. Comes from a pig, great with everything, really tasty due to the presence of certain key food group molecules?"

"I'm sorry, what's a pig?"

"…I'll just have the chicken, then."

It was filling, she had to conclude, but it just wasn't bacon. "That," she said, as they sat around a round little table, getting jostled by passers-by, "was weird. Least you're happy."

"Mm," said Pilcrowe, who was still taking slow, controlled drinks from her travel mug. "Listen, I think I've found something."

"The Shovel?" Random looked down. Nothing on the detector, not the slightest hint of a _ding_.

"No, those two." Pilcrowe pointed into the crowd. "See them? Do you see how spiky his hair is, and how bright that blue streak on hers is? They're main characters, for sure."

Now Random could see them, two people chatting together by one of the immense columns that held up the dome. The male character caused a pang in her chest - with that slim build and spiky pale hair, he looked so much like Neo, though instead of a flowing coat he was dressed in a rather more sensible jacket and jeans theme. The female was lean, dressed in black trousers and a matching jacket, and her gleaming black hair was pulled in a braid shot through with a vivid blue streak.

"Excuse me, are you busy?" she said. Behind her, Pilcrowe was already fishing for the business card.

"Hello!" said Spiky Hair.

"S. C. Pilcrowe, etc, etc," said Pilcrowe, and pocketed the card.

"Can't say I've ever seen you before," said Blue Streak.

But they were happy to listen as Random and Pilcrowe explained about the recent shovel related disappearances. "I've seen all about that!" Spiky Hair said. "Are you from TV?" Even learning that this wasn't a sudden interview on behalf of NaNo Video did nothing to dampen his spirits, though he didn't know of any incidents. "Shovel murder, though? I haven't seen a shovel since Earth."

"Sure there was!" said Blue Streak. "The other day? In Card Wing?" She grinned at her friend. "So, what price do you think we'll put on taking them out there?" she said, in a quieter voice.

Pilcrowe held up the travel mug. "The secret of good coffee."

"What?" exclaimed Blue. "What kind of payment do you think-"

"We'll take it!" said Spiky.

 

-

 

Not for the first time that day, Random was reduced to saying "Wow."

They stepped through another one of the whooshing doors, and into a proper hangar. Two gleaming forms stood over them, styled in much the same way as the animal vehicles Random had seen on the main concourse, but far, far bigger. The nearest, a sleek metal dog made of shining plates and pistons, towered over her. The second was a magpie, its iridescent wings poised ready to take off.

"You like them?" said Spiky.

"This is… you have giant robots in your novel?"

"You should see what happens when we stick them all together!" said Spiky. From his pocket he took something that looked like a set of car keys and fired at the dog mech. It sank in a slow crouch, plates gliding over one another, until it laid with his head against the floor and the translucent shield over its head popped open. Spiky stepped inside the modest sized two seater cockpit, and behind him, Blue had done the same with her magpie. "Come on in! It's just like riding a giant metal animal shaped car!"

Once she was inside, with the shovel detector in her lap, the shield lowered itself again. Her view was somewhat obscured by the protagonist in front of her, but when he tapped at a few buttons on the dashboard, the cockpit exploded into a panorama of displays. Readouts, temperature, pressure meters, maps, and little spinning graphics that may or may not do anything but certainly looked cool danced across the translucent surface in cool blue and green tones.

The engines whirred into life, and Random could feel them as a faint vibration that ran throughout the cockpit, surprisingly gentle for something this size. The bay doors ahead opened, revealing a landscape of grey craters under a perpetual night sky.

"Thank you for visiting Adams Wing!" said a perky, tinny voice piped in from the hangar. "If you have enjoyed todays visit, why not come again soon and spend even more of your money? This message was brought to you by Bob Corp! Have a wonderful day!"

The dog leapt forward, and gravity shifted. Random felt herself turning lighter, and the dog mech sailed over the pitted landscape, landing with a light touch of all four paws.

Spiky, meanwhile, had opened communications, and a screen on the dashboard now showed Blue in her counterpart cockpit, Pilcrowe riding in the seat behind. "Hey," Random said, after they had exchanged greetings, "where is this anyway, the moon?" (Not the other moon. She was no second moon denier in the Nexus, but if you were in anything real life based in the novelsphere, it was best to assume there was only the one unless otherwise stated.)

"Oh no," said Spiky. "This is Ganymede."

"Good thing too!" said Blue, over the comm link. "The Moon's a dump!"

"Shut up, it's my moon!" retorted Spiky. "I'm the only one who gets to call it a dump! Even if it is!"

"Is this some sort of battling rivalry thing that you two have going on?" said Pilcrowe.

"Oh no!" said Spiky. "We're best friends."

"Yeah, but don't go around telling anyone," added Blue.

Random, meanwhile, was too busy staring out over the surface of an alien moon for the next few minutes to comment, but it did bring up a question. "So… you don't have bacon on Ganymede, then? Only they didn't know what it was when I went to get a sandwich."

"They were just being in character," said Blue. "In this setting, pigs are extinct."

"Wow, tough gig."

"You're telling me. Hey guys! Who wants a race? First one to Card Wing?"

"Yeah!" said Random.

"Will it help us get there faster?" said Pilcrowe.

"It's a race, what do you think?" said Blue.

"Very well. If that's what you want, I suppose it is, as they say, on."

Spiky didn't need any more clarification. His hands flew over the dashboard, the readouts flickering and shimmering in response. The dog mech practically flew across the surface alongside the magpie. Random felt herself pinned to her seat as they ran. Which one of them was ahead? It was impossible to tell, even after trying to study the readouts, but she forgot about those as the red, striated face of Jupiter rose over the horizon, the two mechs chasing it across the sky.

It was over all too soon. The dog skidded into place, the magpie following behind. "Hah!" said Spiky. "We won! In your face, birdie!"

"You cheated," protested Blue.

"Oh come on, you enjoyed it," Random said.

The two mechs entered the dock one after the other, and laid down their heads as the riders disembarked. This time there was no cheery message imploring her to give any more money to Bob Corp, only silence. When the shield opened, the first thing to hit her was the smell.

"Aw, you get used to it," said Spiky, who must have seen the look on her face.

"Do you?" It felt like a solid force in the air, deep and rotten, the smell of decaying flesh and old vegetables. Even the hangar walls were duller, as if they'd been coated with a visible, grey and brown application of the same smell. "Okay, the sooner we get this one done, the better."

Random slung the shovel detector over her shoulders again and started inputting the primary sequence into the phone. It began to dance under her fingers, and a tiny radar style screen told her she was close. But the protagonists knew this place better, so she let them lead her and Pilcrowe inside.

She didn't think it would be possible, but the smell was even worse inside. Gigantic vats, taller than the tallest building in the Nexus, towered over her, their dark sides streaked with old runoff. She had never felt as small as she did now, a tiny speck of a person walking across a dimly lit floor, the ceiling so dark and tall that she could barely see it. Steel walkways criss crossed the vault, like tiny threads from a spider's web inside this bizarre cathedral of stink.

"People don't live here, do they?" said Pilcrowe.

"What?" Spiky said. "Oh no, nobody lives here. Just a few people show up to fix things sometimes. Card Wing's all set aside for sewage processing."

 

-

 

"-and need I remind you that your appearance on my show depends on my generosity? Come back and say that when you have a TV station of your own!"

"TV stations are for people who don't know how to do a real show!"

"You're just _jealous_. Jealous because your pep talks are _terrible_ and you are _terrible_ and you should _feel terrible_. Need I say any more? And if not for me, remember you'd be doing your pep talks outside!"

"I still do!"

"Well then I suggest you get on with it, _Macron Brevewin._ "

"Maybe I will!"

"Thankyou." Tildeworth turned back to the cameras and smiled. "And that was my brother, the Pep Talker, with his words of encouragement for all of you as Week Two progresses! Everyone give him a big round of applause!"

She watched him go, from her studio chair. "And now, some words for all of you. The continued Travelling Shovel of Death issue presses at all of us this NaNo season. How I'd love to say we knew more about it, but sadly, investigations are still ongoing, even though I have some very special and very talented people on the case. How special and talented they are! Why I could simply tell you all about-"

From behind Camera One, Vicki hovered in place and flattened her ears.

"-but I won't. Because there are things to do! So on behalf of all of us here at NaNo Video, let me assure me we are doing all we can. In the meantime, let me offer these words of advice. I realise that it may be tempting, during this Week Two, to include the Travelling Shovel of Death in your novels. Believe me, not so long ago, I'd have agreed with you. The Travelling Shovel of Death has long been a valuable tool in this battle we all embark upon to reach the mystical fifty thousand word peak. Who amongst us has not died at its mighty blade, or known someone who has? Who can forget the sensation of adding much needed words to our count when we most needed them with its wonderful, plot inducing powers? Whether serious or silly, the Travelling Shovel of Death has always been there when we need it the most.

"But this year, I can't say the same. Stay safe! Don't use the Travelling Shovel of Death. Use a gun, or a knife, or a pack of bears, whatever works for you. All accounts show that those items are still working properly.

"It has also come to light that the Travelling Shovel of Death has been appearing unbidden. Again, I wouldn't say that was anything to worry about most of the time. Sometimes these things happen, and you just have to let the story do what it wants. But this year... ahem." She cleared her throat. "Do not approach the Travelling Shovel of Death. The Travelling Shovel of Death may attempt to whisper its dark secrets to you. Do not listen to the Travelling Shovel of Death. Do not, under any circumstances, give in to the dark promises of infinite power that the Travelling Shovel of Death will impart to you. If approached by the Travelling Shovel of Death, run. If approached by the Travelling Shovel of Death whilst in company, grab your companion by the hand, whisper 'run!' into their ear, and then, run. It will lend your scene a touch of drama, and we could all do with a bit of that in November.

"Now in a minute we'll be going live to Mr Ian Woon, who will be taking time out from his very busy schedule to talk to us about his latest escape from our aforementioned rogue gardening implement. But now, your letters." She took a dark blue envelope from the table beside her, and put on a pair of glasses. They didn't really help her read any better, but they did mak her look clever. "We've been hearing more and more from you, our viewers, regarding current affairs, and thank you all so much for it! Now let's see what the black and white cat's brought in..."

She tugged one finger under the flap, and slit it open. Inside, she caught a glimpse of something huge,coiled up and tucked inside the envelope's dimensions...

Her last thought before she was engulfed in letters was _this is the last time I buy stationary from the fanfic people._

Eventually, she clawed herself back into the glare of the studio lights. "Excuse me for that little technical glitch," she said. "Now, let's see about..." She looked around the studio, or rather, what little of it was left and not covered in paper. "Oh. Oh my."

 

-

 

One return journey and two very long showers later, Random and Pilcrowe were back on the main concourse, going through the results of their investigation. The sewage and shovel murder had been part of an as yet unresolved sideplot, so there weren't a lot of conclusions to make, but enough for Pilcrowe.

Random wasn't sure what time it was, or if time even worked the same on the Jovian moons, but the concourse was as bright as ever. She stared at the results on the shovel detector's screen, while Pilcrowe scrolled through Tildeworth's list, which had, from her muttered comments, gotten a lot longer in recent hours. They sat outside the coffee shop with the smiling sign. Pilcrowe had a refill of her travel mug, while Random had decided to be a little more adventurous and try a Bobbachino. The two protagonists had left them to get back to their own plot, but Random had made sure they knew just how grateful she (and Pilcrowe, "she just doesn't show it, honest," she'd said) was, not only for the lift but the experience of riding in a mech over the surface of a distant moon.

It was just a shame about the data quality. "We're still a few days behind the trail," she said. "I still haven't gotten to see what this thing can do with something fresher."

"Exactly, that's where I come in." Pilcrowe didn't look up from her phone. "You do your... science, and I do the thinking."

"Science is thinking," said Random. "I'm pretty sure that's the whole point of science."

"Yes, but sometimes you have to rely on it and nothing else. Something's going to come together. It'll be more than... that."

"You got a problem with my shovel detector?"

"It's forensics," said Pilcrowe, in the same tone she usually reserved for talking about instant coffee. "Forensics is cheating."

"Thing, remember? Don't do the thing."

"Well..." Pilcrowe finally looked up. "Still pretty impressive."

"Is that a compliment?" Random said, looking down at the machine in her hands. She turned the dial to test it, and it let out another clear _ding_.

"If you want it to be. You haven't been a scientist long, have you?"

"Just over a week."

"Hmm. Then yes. Forensics or not, that is impressive."

Random went back to her testing, making sure the machine was properly calibrated for the next jump. "It's funny, how quickly it comes on you. I was saying this to Tildeworth, when she called the other night. One moment I think I really want to be a pirate, and then I'm a scientist and I know all these things I didn't before."

"You're being rewritten It happens. Sooner or later you'll have a backstory and a family, or different hair. You don't know. Hmm, looks like we might have something in the Literary genre this time."

"I guess it worked out. I mean, rubbish pirate I'd make, now I know. It's just weird, you know? I mean, I think science jokes are funny! Like the one about why you can't trust atoms. Go on, ask me why you can't trust atoms."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because it's better if you do!"

"Very well." Pilcrowe glared over the top of her glasses. "Why can't you trust atoms?"

"Because… they make up everything!" Random paused for thought. "Actually that's not really true, at present knowledge they make up only a small proportion of all known matter. So I suppose it's not a very good joke after all. But it's still funny!"

"Now some might say that is taking things a little too far."

Random looked up from her work, and took a deep breath. "Watson, you idiot," she said, "someone has stolen our tent."

And then Pilcrowe was trying not to laugh, Random was sure. She just wasn't doing a very good job of it.

 

-

 

Over the next few days, the librarians didn't say anything anymore. It was easier that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. It was really juvenile of me. Yet I regret nothing.


	10. So Many Shades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sacrifice goes wrong, a creepy romance novel goes astray, and a secret is revealed.

_When I set out on my bike for a five-mile ride, I know that I'll come home with invaluable material I didn't have before. Which is also why I take a notebook and pen out every time I go dancing. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

When November fell, it was always dark early in the afternoon, and it had been dark for a long time whenever Tildeworth left the studio. She needed supplies. The vending machines tried, she reminded herself, but they just couldn't get the tea right.

She was still sifting through the letters. Her staff had been wonderful, but they'd been pushing themselves too far, and she'd had to remind them all to go home at a reasonable hour. It wasn't their fault, after all. She was the one who'd asked for them, and she'd had her wish granted. It was just taking time, that was all. So what? That was just what NaNoWriMo was all about, taking on big impossible tasks. It was just that other people's involved words, and hers involved... well, letters.

Hah. Letters. Everything was funny when you'd been working this long.

Well, at least she was doing something. Mr Ian Woon might try to convince his mother to listen more, but he was always so busy, and she still felt like the only Personification who was taking an interest in things. The worst thing about it all was the way they all seemed to be so nice about it. They didn't tell her to be quiet, just that they were sure she and her friends could handle it. And they could. It would just be nice not to... well, to be the youngest Personification sometimes.

But she'd been through the Business, and she could get through this too. She just needed supplies.

She headed back home to the apartment she shared with Sue. Its position was rarely stable, but at this moment in time the block had a wonderful view of the Midway Mountains. Maybe in December, they'd have a chance to sit down and enjoy it together.

The door was half jammed with adverts and fast food menus when she pushed it open and switched on the light. The whole place could really use a dusting and a vacuum, but then again, wasn't housework for December? Yes, yes it was, that was what she always told her viewers, and Tildeworth liked to think she lived by her own advice. She opened the kitchen door, and remembered there was no tea here.

"Blast," she said, and then her eye fell on the grinder and coffee sachets on the far shelf. She knew it was a dreadful thing for a Personification of NaNoWriMo to admit to, but Tildeworth had never been a coffee person. Tea was so much more subtle, more fitting her, but sometimes she would just have to make do. She felt a stab of guilt as she put away the grinder and sachets in her bag, but she'd buy more for Pilcrowe in December. The really expensive stuff, no junk.

More December promises. At least something was normal around here.

She tried the bedroom next. Most of it was taken up by a huge double bed, one side with rumpled and dishevelled sheets, the other as neat as a hotel room. She tried not to look at it as she opened the wardrobe and pulled down a tightly rolled sleeping bag. It never came out except for Camp sessions, and right now it was neatly packed enough to fit under her arm as she walked back to the station.

It was just like the old days, before they moved in together. She'd had a little place of her own then, but she'd spent much of her time at the station, getting used to the new place and new everything else, and composing bad love poetry to a beautiful detective from the local pub...

There just hadn't been so many emails to sift through in those days. But NaNoWriMo grew bigger every year, even without all this. She rubbed her eyes and sat down in her office again, the sleeping bag on the couch and the coffee and grinder on the desk amidst the framed photos of its owner. It didn't help the guilt very much, she had to admit.

Well, time to get moving. She opened the laptop, and scanned the wall of new emails. Her eyes began to unfocus…

-only to snap back again, when she heard a ringtone and opened the call.

She blinked. There was someone on her screen, but she was so tired that her eyes refused to focus on them. "Hello?"

"You look worse than me! What's wrong?"

Tildeworth blinked again, holding a hand over her eyes to shield them from the light. She still couldn't make out the caller's face, but that was now perfectly normal. "Mr Ian Woon? Is this important?"

"Not if you look like that! Hasn't anyone noticed?"

Tildeworth sat up a little straighter and pushed a few locks of unwashed hair from her face. "Everyone's been busy, myself included. Things will get back to normal. Now what was it you wanted? Did you get Marni to help?"

"Not particularly," said Mr Ian Woon, caving in despite the obvious reluctance in his voice. "But I thought, I've been in plenty of novels, and I've had a few brush ins with the Shovel - yes, I'm being careful, that's why I'm still here! - and I thought you'd like some of what I gathered…"

 

-

 

A weak sun cast its pallid light over a desolate plain. The wind howled and stirred up whirls of dust over the bones of fallen fantastic beasts. There was no water here, no life, no hope. Only distant jagged mountains, far upon the horizon, marked the end of this place of death and fear. To cross it would be a foolish trial, one for only the bravest and best prepared of souls.

On this day, the bleak lands rang out with the sound of distant voices, carried by the wind over an uncaring land.

"This is all your fault, you know."

"My fault? Might I remind you that I was the one to negotiate this?"

"Yes, and look where it got us!"

"If you want to go go chasing after a cold trail, so be it."

"I don't! I just… will you stop this?"

"Do you think I want to be here? They could have at least made sure the chains don't chafe."

"Yeah. You're right there."

Random craned her neck to look over her shoulder. It wasn't easy. Pilcrowe was chained up almost directly behind her, so all she could see was a blackened wooden stake and a bit of elbow and hair behind it. It was amazing, she thought, how much irritation could be conveyed by a few small body parts.

"We could strike a deal," said the detective. "No more dark fantasy."

"Good idea." Random gazed out over the desolate plain. "What would you do with a shovel around here anyway?"

"Rawnimoon was just as perplexed as you are."

A deep pit yawned before them, from which sulfurous fumes emitted, drifting in the wind. It glowed with the promise of a terrible fire deep, deep below. And now a dreadful growl rose from the depths, causing the very ground to shake and tremble.

"Dark Lord Rawnimoon, excuse me," Pilcrowe went on.

_grooowwwwllll…_

"..Dreaded Beast of the Pit, Scourge of All The Land, Spawn of the Stars and Master of The Terrible Void, yes. Look, the point is, he needs a sacrifice to maintain his dreaded power upon the land, and I need information. We both win."

"Yeah, I suppose there's another bright side to all this, too," said Random.

"And what would that be?"

"We've still got all our clothes on."

"That is true."

The wind screamed across jagged cliffs. Dust rose and fall, and a chill settled upon the land.

"Anyway, we'll probably get rescued," added Random.

They stood in silence, arms pilled above their heads, as they considered the possibility of two random drop-ins running into a convenient protagonist at just the right time. It didn't sound good. It wasn't that Random was afraid. Tildeworth had been very clear that the only dangerous way to die was via the Shovel, and those weren't a common sight in dark rituals. But at times like these, she was damn well going to hold onto the hope that there was a handy kid with a destiny wandering about.

Then again, maybe Pilcrowe was right. It was just business, after all.

She was still contemplating this when Pilcrowe's phone rang.

The stake jolted as Pilcrowe shifted, trying to look down at whatever pocket it was in. "Excuse me? I have a call. Can we pause for a moment?"

A rumble passed across the dark altar, and Random felt a click as Dark Lord Rawnimoon, Dreaded Beast of the Pit, Scourge of All The Land, Spawn of the Stars and Master of the Terrible Void agreed that it was probably an important phone call and it ought not to go to voicemail. Random rubbed a little life into her suddenly freed wrists as Pilcrowe answered.

There wasn't much to listen to on her end, just the odd "Yes?" and "Really?" and one "Okay, send it along," and so she was only half listening when Pilcrowe hung up and said, "Cedilla's sending a data sheet along. Says she can't make any sense of it except it's a co-ordinate trail, but she thinks you have a chance." She pointed to the shovel detector still slung around Random's neck. "She asks if you can… do science with that."

"What?"

"Her words, not mine."

Random studied the phone screen, the only bright light in this place, as Pilcrowe let her look at it. She saw lines and columns of numbers, and blinked, and with that intermediate motion, they suddenly made sense. "They're novels!" she said. "And really recent too! Look, these dates are from today! I bet if you and me worked together we could figure out the next-"

"Random."

"-novel it's going to! I bet we could even get there-"

"Random!"

"-before it hits! Hey Dark Lord Rawnimoon? Thanks for all the help, but-"

 _Grooooowwwwaaaaarrrrrrr!_ The ground shook, the skies darkened, the land itself a manifestation of wrath. Random looked up at Pilcrowe's nonchalant expression.

"I don't think he's very pleased about that," Random said.

"No, he is not."

"That's what you were trying to tell me about, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was."

"We should run, shouldn't we?"

"Yes, we should."

Random felt her feet move as if without any input from her thoughts. She backed up a few steps and ran, away from the shaking pit, in Pilcrowe's wake. "What do you think?" she yelled. "See any patterns?"

Pilcrowe's eyes never left her phone. "Let me think!"

The ground shuddered and cracked open, a fissure spreading between Random's feet. She leapt to one side to avoid falling into the red hot, faintly glowing depths, and hoisted the shovel detector into her hands, gazing down at the screen. "If I had a list of full co-ordinates I could run an analysis on the genre/style compatibility and reverse the flow of the stream so as to-"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"It doesn't need to!"

"Well say something that does! I'm trying to be clever here!" Pilcrowe's fingers were a blur over her phone screen as she scrolled, her feet dancing over the shaking ground as if by instinct. Random ran faster to catch up, keeping one eye on the display, stumbling over an uneven path. Down they ran, to a door nestled in the cliff face overlooking that desolate plain, a door cast in black iron and covered in symbols that twisted the eye to look too close. Boulders slammed to the ground far below as Pilcrowe pulled it open and ushered Random through before following and slamming it closed behind her.

They took a few deep breaths together, back in the calm and silence of the library, with the twisted mental door at their backs. Little motes of dust danced in calm sunlight.

"Romance," Pilcrowe said, eventually.

"No thanks," said Random.

"Ha ha. I mean the next novel. It's going to be in the romance genre. The pattern fits. Now if you did your reversing the thing with the thing-"

"That's not what I said."

"Then do the thing you did say."

Random was about to reply, but the floor began to tremble, and a few books slid from their shelves behind her, crashing to the floor in clouds of dust. She looked back at the door.

Neither of them needed to speak. They darted forward, as the door crashed open and a darkness as thick as ink flooded the library. Faint curling shapes, shadows of gaping tooth lined maws and bared claws, cast themselves upon the wall. Random felt the roar through her feet as much as she heard it, a deep, rumbling sound that reached into the depths of the mind and brought back thoughts of nameless, fanged terrors lurking in the dark.

She tried to focus on the screen. "You do realise that's a highly theoretical piece of science?"

"And we need it, so it's going to work!"

"If you say so!" She turned a corner, deeper into the library's book-lined passages, as her fingers tapped upon the screen. "Come on, please, come on…"

_Ding_

"Got it!" The screen showed a green tinted radar, and she turned again, Pilcrowe on her heels. The books here had a distinctly pink theme. "You were right!"

But there was no time to celebrate yet. As a bookshelf behind them, twice as tall as Pilcrowe, toppled over, spreading broken wood and books in an avalanche across the hall. "Keep going!" yelled Pilcrowe. "It doesn't matter!"

"What doesn't matter? What's that noise?" A crackling of white light resolved itself into the shape of a librarian, arms folded. "What have you done to my library?"

"No time to explain!" Random hurried past the angry librarian, as another shelf crashed to the ground and a roar shook the library's foundations. "We'll get you one later!"

Leaving the librarian behind, they ran on past pink lined bookshelves, as tendrils of shadow reached out. Random urged her legs to keep going, but she wasn't as fast as Pilcrowe, who was now several paces ahead and widening the gap every second. "That way!" Random pointed, to a door in the distance, a sleek glass affair with a pattern of chains etched across it. "Keep going!"

Pilcrowe reached the door first and opened it, revealing blue skies beyond, but Random was far behind and Dark Lord Rawnimoon, Dreaded Beast of the Pit, Scourge of All The Land, Spawn of the Stars and Master of the Terrible Void was gaining with every second. "I said keep going!" Random yelled, willing herself to go faster, faster, as fast as she could. The door was closer, closer, and Pilcrowe had vanished behind her. She could make it too, Only a little further. She'd worry about the exhaustion later…

A dark claw slammed into her back, the momentum propelling her forward, and she fell through the door as shards of glass rained down all around her.

 

-

 

Random opened her eyes, but there wasn't much to see, only darkness.

Let's see. There'd been the shovel detector, and something about a lead, hadn't there? Yes, a very fresh lead. Something else was happening too, something very important. What had it been again? She'd been asleep, hadn't she? That wasn't right. Supposed to be chasing the shovel, not going back to bed... no matter how good bed felt right now...

Come to think of it, though, this bed wasn't exactly comfortable. Sure, she'd had some interesting sleeping places over the last few days, but nothing that felt like... what was this? Plastic? She ran a hand over its surface, and found it to be slightly ridged and bumpy.

"Leather?" she murmured. "Who covers a bed with leather?"

She'd been asleep for a while. Her mouth was dry, her head felt as if it had been overstuffed with fluff. "Sue?" she whispered. There was no reply. "Sue?"

She rolled over. The shovel detector was gone.

Immediately she shot upright and fumbled in the dark. Her hands hit upon a beside table (the top was softer than usual - more leather?) and a lamp. More fumbling, and it switched on, and she was left blinking in the light.

Whoever lived here, she thought, really liked the colours black and red. And leather, but that was a given already. It was someone's bedroom, though the impact was lessened by the fact that she still had all her clothes on and nobody else was there.

So what had happened to Pilcrowe, and what was she doing here?

She'd been investigating the last shovel leap after Tildeworth's tipoff. She knew that much. And she remembered going back to the library. The co-ordinates had been excellent this time around. If she'd had more time, she'd have grabbed the champagne, but not now. Leave it until December. Right, so there'd definitely been no alcohol involved here. Another good sign.

Whoever had taken the detector hadn't bothered to give her phone back. Not such a good sign.

And now the door knob was turning, and she could feel a familiar sensation of plot taking her hands and pulling her along. "Oh, no," she hissed. "Not now! Sue, if that's not you out there…"

It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. "Why, good morning," purred the newcomer. "Did you sleep well?"

"No."

He was a young man, immaculately dressed in a perfect crisp suit and a perfect tie, his hair slicked back, his pale blue eyes gazing down at her. She drew the lab coat closer around herself in response. "Oh, what a shame," he said. "Perhaps this was all a mistake after all..."

"Yeah, I think it was. What happened?" She got to her feet. "And don't give me any crap."

"Nothing happened, nothing at all! Only that you were there, with your beautiful fiery hair, and..."

"That line had better end with 'and I didn't do anything else apart from shut you in a room full of dead cows'," said Random. "And my hair is not beautiful."

"I didn't, but... but... oh, don't you get it?" The newcomer flung his hands in the air. "You're supposed to be madly in love with me! You mean you're not the girl who was meant to show up?"

"I'm a scientist. I'm investigating a murder." Oh. The genre had been romance, hadn't it? Crap. This was one of those early scenes, where the alleged love interest runs into the heroine late at night, and takes her home to stay overnight. Somewhere, the plots had become crossed.

"But you're supposed to be in love with me!"

"Somehow I can't bring myself to agree with that."

"Look, you don't get how this works," snapped the romance protagonist, hands on hips. "It's really simple. I'm a young, handsome billionaire with just enough psychological issues to make me both interesting and highly attractive. You're a young woman who doesn't know where she's going in life, but has stumbled upon me and can't believe I - young, handsome billionaire, remember? - would ever take a second glance at you. Now you're swept away on a raft of romance, unsure if-"

"I'm investigating a murder," said Random. "If you don't want it to be yours, shut up."

"Well there's no need to be like that. Okay, so you're not the girl who was meant to show up, but you wouldn't mind-"

"Murder, remember?"

"Oh, fine. But if you ever change your mind, young handsome billionaire, psychological issues, etc?"

"I'll keep it in mind, or rather I won't. Now, I came here with my colleague, and my detection equipment. I'd like to know where they both are, and you are going to escort me to the scene of the crime, understand?"

"Well, I'd love to," said the romance protagonist, "but I don't know of any crimes around here."

"You don't know anything about the Travelling Shovel of Death?"

"I know exactly what is it, but there's no way it would be here. This is a romance novel!"

After a few more pushes from Random, insisting that if he didn't want to be starring in a crime novel instead he had better get a move on, Random finally pushed past him and into the hallway, only to be greeted by plush carpets and geometric chandeliers. Well, he hadn't been lying about the billionaire part at least. "Come on," she said. "We're going to find them."

If the romance protagonist did know where Pilcrowe and the detector were, he was hiding it well. Random didn't trust him not to be. He probably thought withholding vital information about someone's friends and vital scientific equipment was romantic or something.

Out of the ground floor of what turned out to be a glittering skyscraper (what was this, his office slash weekday place?) they stepped into a shining city. Random's first thought was that it contained altogether way too many shoe shops.

Now, what would Pilcrowe do in a situation like this? Take one look at Mr Romance Protagonist and work out exactly what he was up to, no doubt. Okay, then what?

"Listen, why don't we go back inside?" he said, drawing closer. "I don't know of any murders, but sooner or later one of us-"

"Get out!"

Random had barely enough time to look up before she felt a lurch of joy. A familiar figure in a tan coat was running toward her, shovel detector under her arm. "Don't need to tell me!" she called back, but Pilcrowe kept going, and snatched at her arm, pulling her away and off her feet. "Hey, what-"

A shovel shaped shadow blotted out the sun for the tiniest fraction of a second.

There was a terrible crunching noise.

Random got to her feet, and looked down at what remained of Mr Romance Protagonist. "I did not see that coming."

"Neither, I believe, did he. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I- hey! I'm missing some important scientific data here!" She snatched up the detector, heaved it back into its rightful place, and tapped the screen as fast as she could to calibrate it. She caught a glimpse of black metal by the corpse, but it was gone the instant she laid eyes on it. No matter, the trail would tell her where. She held it out over the late protagonist, circling his body.

"No, are you okay?" said Pilcrowe. "He didn't hurt you?"

"No, just shoved me in a room with some rubbish upholstery. Think he had me confused for his love interest. Agh, wait a minute here." She tapped a few buttons on the screen, plugged in a few more commands, and, for good measure, whacked the whole thing on the side with her fist. "Important scientific data, hello? Wake up and give me some?" But no matter what she did, the screen remained blank.

Pilcrowe was staring up at the sky, into the spot where the shovel had fallen from.

"I don't think you're going to find your answers there," she said, and one look told Random this wasn't about a simple disdain for forensic methods.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got your powers, doing your... scientist science, there." Pilcrowe waved a hand in Random's direction. "I have them too, remember? And right now, I'm using them. Give me a moment, and meet me in that corpse's office."

 

-

 

Random knew Pilcrowe was planning something, so she gave her some time to prepare before she went back inside. She had something planned, she was sure of it, but she kept scanning the corpse, hoping for any hint of a signal. The trace must be too high, she decided. It must be overloading the instruments.

She detached the phone and sat down on an ornate bench, overlooking a fountain in the shape of two swans spewing water, which to her eyes was a very gross misrepresentation of biology indeed. Stupid businessmen. They just didn't care. She took her mind off it and whatever it was that Pilcrowe was up to in there by typing out some altered code on the phone. She let her instincts guide her. Just a few added commands, a patch to help the machine handle the influx of data it must no doubt be handling. It had taken the last jump here well, but perhaps now she'd hit the threshold.

The code finished, she slotted it back into the machine, and fired it up. The spinning graphics came back to life, and she smiled. She loved the spinning graphics. She had no idea what they were, but that didn't matter one bit.

She approached the corpse. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the sky. He looked surprised, which probably made sense. Protagonists, when they did die, rarely had to list their cause of death as "inexplicable falling gardening equipment." She might have found it in her to feel sorry for him, if it wasn't for everything else.

She scanned the body. The Shovel was long gone, but she could see the cracked stone where it had landed, and the shattered shoulder on the former protagonist. If only she'd had more time to look! But if not for Pilcrowe, she might be the one lying there, and she was well aware of it.

She held her breath as the scanner whirred and chirped, and the first lines of data began to scroll over the screen…

There was no ding.

"Oh, Baty, why now?" she hissed.

There was nothing for it. Time to see what Pilcrowe had cooked up.

She stepped back inside into a marble floored lobby. The last time she'd been through here, she'd been too busy arguing with the deceased to pay any attention. Now she could see the whole place in all its glory - desks, more fountains, and impossibly green plants in neat little rows. There was nobody here. The story's influence had gone, but perhaps it didn't care about little details such as staff when there was a steamy and allegedly romantic tale to tell. The marble floor shone, almost mirroring her as she passed over it. It seemed designed to cause anyone wearing heels to skid and trip in some sort of cute and clumsy way, but Random was wearing perfectly sensible shoes and strode over it with no trouble at all.

Now, where would someone like this keep his office? Probably on the same floor as the World of Leather Show Room. There was a lift at the far end, so she gave it a try. The door slid open to reveal the same plush, red velvet lined interior that she'd seen earlier. She pressed the number for the floor she remembered last time, and the doors slid shut with no sound at all.

She went back to fiddling with the detector code as the lift rose. She was missing something here, something that she'd never thought of before. There was a piece to this whole puzzle that she'd never considered, and if she could only just consider it, then she'd be on the right track. It would help an awful lot if she knew what I was.

But that was what being a scientist was all about, wasn't it? Not knowing, but not caring, because there was always room to find out the answer.

Come to think of it, that was probably what being a detective was all about, too.

The lift came to a graceful halt, and the doors slid back open. Random recognised the floor as soon as she stepped out. Broad corridors, lit by warm mood lights, stretched out before her. Where would Mr Protagonist's office be? Probably at the end of the fanciest one.

She was proven right when she followed the broadest passage, lined with more impossibly green pot plants, to a pair of tall double doors, and pushed them open.

Inside she found a long office room, tiled with marble like the lobby, half its floor covered by a clearly expensive woven rug. Random ground a little dirt from her shoes into it, just because.

She had never seen a desk as big as the one at the end of the room before, made of the same deep coloured wood and inlaid with more marble, its surface topped with, surprise, more leather, although this time it was a rather more tasteful deep green colour. A high backed chair behind it had its back turned to her, and beyond that, a set of tall French windows led onto a broad balcony with a prime view of the glittering city and the shore beyond.

There was also a small mobile blackboard sitting next to the desk, and as Random watched, a familiar dark hand appeared from behind the chair, a slim piece of chalk held elegantly in slim fingers.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you to this ridiculously opulent office." Said Pilcrowe, as the chair spun slowly around to reveal her sitting in it. Points for style, Random had to admit.

"Yeah," she said. "I mean no, not really, because you're probably going to tell me what's going on, I just don't know what's going on. So yeah, I'm wondering about that. Hey, that's a really cool chair. Can I have a go on it?"

"Suit yourself. I'm done with it now." Pilcrowe stood upright and went to stand by the blackboard. "Sit yourself down and listen."

Random sank into the chair, feeling it curve around her spine in just the right ways. "Mmm. This, I like. Okay, I'm listening." She set the detector down on the expensive leather topped table. It made a quite satisfying dent.

"Good," Pilcrowe said. "Now I've gathered you… I realise there's only two of us here now, but just go with me here… to tell you that I know where the shovel just went. More so, I know why you can't track it."

She strode over to the blackboard. "One. Bagels," She wrote BAGELS in big letters over the top.

"Bagels?"

"Yes, bagels. This is why you pay attention to things. Think back to Fred the Pirate and his ninja friends. And then don't, because you weren't very productive that day, I have to admit."

Random shrugged. She had a point. There's very little productivity to be had in throwing your lunch overboard. Or any other meal, come to think of it.

"Around the scene of the crime, there were some very distinct crumbs, do you remember? Now I don't think anyone would be eating a packed lunch in the middle of a fight between pirates and ninjas."

"Of course not," said Random. "They'd save that for later."

"Exactly! And when I took a closer look at those crumbs, I found out that they were bagel crumbs."

"Pirates don't eat bagels."

"Exactly. Fred the Pirate himself told me he was not that anachronistic. Question - what would bagel crumbs be doing on a pirate ship? Answer - I don't know. Or I didn't."

She turned back to the board, and wrote PIGS.

"Pigs?" Random said, swinging the chair back and forth.

"In the second novel we visited, you wanted a bacon sandwich. You couldn't get one. The protagonist helpfully reminded you that in that setting, pigs were extinct."

"Are you saying the Shovel is being co-ordinated by some sort of pig mafia?"

"Nothing so ridiculous."

"Would make a great story, though."

"Maybe, but that is beside the point. Now on my investigation around the second crime scene, I found several short black hairs on the ground, coated in a slick substance. A form of hair gel, I believe, and quite a distinct brand. As a scientist, I assume you are familiar with some of the ingredients that go into cosmetic products."

A flash of thought, unbidden, from the depths of her story granted knowledge. "Pig proteins."

"Precisely. The gel in question was of a brand that used these exact ingredients, and therefore could not have originated within that novel. Furthermore, it was a specific brand of which I have some familiarity with."

She walked in a circle around the blackboard, hands clasped behind her back, still holding the chalk like a half burned cigarette. "At this point, the pieces were starting to fall into place. But I couldn't be sure, not yet. I hoped I had more to find, but it led me onward. Only today did I find the last piece of evidence. It is outside. Outside here."

Random swung the chair around so that she was facing the balcony. "Out there?"

"Yes. When I saw the shovel fall toward you, that was when I knew what was happening. The trajectory was aimed right at you and your unfortunate companion."

"You saved my life." Random stared over the balcony. Behind her, she could hear the chalk scratch over the board again. She turned her head to look. TRAJECTORY.

"I did, but thank me later, this is important. "I saw it all, then, when it fell. The path it took through the air, the precise speed it fell at. It could only have fallen from that balcony, over there. Question - why is this significant?"

"Someone threw it from out there?" Random snatched up the detector. "What are we sitting here for then? We should be-"

"Question - what's Scottish and gives me nightmares?" Pilcrowe stood with the chalk in hand like an irate schoolteacher. "Answer - you sometimes. But no, no, that's a reasonable thing to ask. I asked myself too, I looked, don't you think I looked!" She held out her hands. "There was nobody there on that balcony. But that's not the problem. There probably doesn't need to be anyone there. The Shovel's been attacking of its own free will lately. Assuming it has one. No, it didn't need to be thrown. But that's not what I'm worried about. What caught my mind was that I'd seen this all before. The exact trajectory. The exact drop from the exact same height. This. Exact. Murder."

With one last flourish, she drew a wide circle over the three words. "This was a murder that I investigated before, a long time ago. It's come back. I think whoever is behind this wanted me to notice."

She laid the chalk down. "The reason why you can't track the Shovel from this point is that it's gone somewhere your little beeping machine was never meant to track! You ever get the feeling that you're missing something? You see what you missed?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

Pilcrowe rested her hands on the desk's edge. "The Shovel has gone to a novel that was never completed. It was written, and abandoned, a long time ago."

She took a deep breath. "It's my novel."


	11. Try Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tildeworth is exhausted. Pilcrowe learns a valuable lesson about the magic of friendship. And Random's about to... well, read the title again.

_It's a speed bump, not a brick wall. -No Plot? No Problem!_

 

Random stared back into wide, dark brown eyes, focused through thick rimmed glasses. Pilcrowe gripped the desk so tight that her normally warm brown knuckles turned pale. "You were in a novel," Random said. "Like me?"

"No, not like you. You chose to leave, for some stupid reason!"

"Stupid reason? I'm trying to find my friend here! Why didn't you tell me there was something going on?" Random hugged the shovel detector close to her chest.

"You don't know how this works, do you? You have to gather the evidence first and put it all together. What kind of idiot detective brings everyone together at the end and says 'I've called you all here because I have a hunch about who did it but nothing to confirm it?' You're a scientist! You should know about proper results!"

"I know, but…"

"You have no idea!" Pilcrowe snapped back to her full height, and slammed her fist on the desk so hard it shook.

"What do you mean, no idea?" Random held the detector closer. "I came to find you, I walked out of everything I had… I lost my friend! You can call me whatever type of idiot you want but don't you dare… don't you _dare_ tell me I don't know anything here. Not once. Have you got that? Not once!"

"Then why did you hire me?"

"Good question! Want to know?" Random got out of her seat and slung the detector back over her shoulder. "I was this close to leaving you on the first day. I thought you didn't care. But then that girlfriend of yours had to call and get me, and she asked me to give you a chance. And you know what? I listened. I don't know what it is she sees in you, or ever saw in you, but she asked me to give you a chance so I did, because she was so damn _nice_! Well, I tried, and you can just.. you can just stop all of this right now, because I'm taking my stuff and I'm going to find Neo myself." She was shaking by the time she reached the end, and a hot, prickling sensation rose behind her ears. "He's… he's gone, don't you remember?"

She didn't want to sink back into the chair and hold her face in her hands, but her body overcame her. A hand came to rest, tentative and fleeting, on her shoulder.

"Don't you touch me!" Random snapped, muffled through her fingers. "Don't you dare touch me! He's gone, don't you remember? And for a while I thought it was this big adventure but then…" Her voice trailed away into muffled and broken sobs, her hands wet with tears.

"Random…"

She didn't say anything.

"One last run, and then it's all over," said Pilcrowe. "We're going to-"

 _Briiing_ went Pilcrowe's phone.

"Oh not now, not _now_!" Through her quiet cries, Random heard Pilcrowe take the call anyway. "S. C. Pilcrowe?"

"Oh dear," said Tildeworth's voice, all tinny through the phone speakers. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, I mean… I don't know…" Pilcrowe went on. Random didn't move, didn't look up. "Listen, I think I'm in the middle of something but… it's a thing. Can I talk to you?"

Their voices grew quieter as Pilcrowe's footsteps diminished. In the distance, the door swung open and closed.

Random still didn't look up.

 

-

 

Pilcrowe paced back and forth in the corridor outside the plush office, dislodging a couple of perfect potted plants as she went. "I can talk now."

"Sue? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, everything's perfect, what else would it be? We're doing well. Found the last link. Tied up the origin of the shovel murders in one neat wrapper and now we're off!"

"Normally I'd say that would be cause for celebration, but I'm not sure you're telling me the full story here."

Pilcrowe stopped in her pacing, let out a wordless cry of frustration, and stared down at the screen, where her Cedilla looked up from the phone's display. "Things became a little complicated."

She looked again. She couldn't help it. Every day, every night, she was watching, observing, finding all the little cues that most people kept missing out on all the time. But it didn't take her senses to see what had happened to Tildeworth. Dark circles ran under her eyes, only part obscured by the glasses that Pilcrowe was sure she didn't need. Usually she wore them to look smart, but now, she couldn't help feeling she was trying to cover up. "Dear Chris Baty," she whispered, "what happened to you?"

"An awful lot of letters, and a show that must go on," said Tildeworth. "Enough about me, what about you?"

"What do you mean, what about me? What about you? Have you been sleeping?"

"Dear Susan, it's always hard to sleep without you there. But that's not the point. Look, I'm sleeping on the couch in my office these days anyway-"

"What?"

"Oh don't worry, it's very comfortable…"

"No, no, no!" Pilcrowe started pacing again, posing a potent threat to the remaining plants. "This isn't right, I've got to get back there now! I've done everything I can here…"

"You've found it, then?"

"Yes. In a manner of speaking."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning… meaning yes, I've found where the trail leads. Meaning I had my suspicions there for a while. I didn't say anything, how could I? I didn't have all the pieces in place yet. And I… Baty, I didn't want to tell her! I didn't want it to be true! I mean, of all the places that damn _spade_ could have come from!" Holding the phone in one hand, she leaned against the wall and rubbed her forehead.

"Where?"

"You know, don't you?"

"Yes…" Tildeworth said "I think I do. As I once said, I'm not a detective, but I'm close to someone who is. Very close."

"Cedilla…" Pilcrowe pulled off her glasses and wiped her brow. "I don't know if I can do this."

"You shouldn't have to go there."

"Oh, I wish." She held her free hand over the screen. She wished so many things right now. She wished that the screen wasn't there, that she could run her hands through Tildeworth's hair and forget everything else. But what was it they said about wanting things not making them real? "I have to," she said. "I promised her. Or, I was going to promise her, and then she threw me out of the room, and then you called anyway, so I didn't get to say it. But I meant it. I'd promised her in my head."

"Wait, threw you out? What did you do?"

"Nothing! I mean… I might have called her an idiot and told her she didn't know anything and then she started crying-"

"Sue, I really don't want to say this while you're going through so much yourself… Baty, not when you're going through _this_ of all things, I almost _understand_ you here, but I think it would be a nice idea if maybe you went back in there and said sorry?"

"Mmm."

"Then do it. And.. I can't believe I'm saying this, I don't want you to go, but… you have to go through with this. Go there, find out what's happening. You owe her now. And if… if there's any way I can still reach you, while you're in there, I'll do it. I'll call you over and over, you remember that?"

"I will." She'd never doubt that, not for one moment.

"And… and I love you, and stay safe. Both of you. Please."

 

-

 

The door swung open. At the end of the room, Random looked up, brushing tangled red curls away from her face. "What do you want now?"

"I've just been on the phone. To Cedilla."

Random glared down the length of the office.

"Got a little personal in there. Told her what we'd found." Pilcrowe stood in the open doorway, hands shoved into her suit pockets, tan coat swept back behind her. "And she thinks I ought to say sorry to you. And well… I think I should say sorry to you as well. So. Um. Sorry."

The glare softened a little.

"Look, if you wanted fancy words, I'm not the person to give them. I wish I was. But I… I promised you I was going to find your friend. And you can say what you want about me. Don't mind. Probably asked for it, what with everything I did there. But I did promise you and well, last thing I want anyone saying is that I don't follow through on a promise. You can go where you want. But I'm… I'm going back to my novel. I'm going to find your friend."

"You told me I didn't know anything."

"I was wrong. There's a lot you know. Maybe things I could stand to know too."

"I'm still not forgiving you," said Random. She was sitting up straight now, hands folded over the desk around the detector. "Not now. Maybe not ever."

"I understand."

"But… okay. You and me, let's go. I've got nothing here, we may as well go for it, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And… you're a jerk, Pilcrowe. You're an utter arsehole. But anything happens to you, we're working together, I owe you for this one. So anything that happens, I'll be there and I'll get you out. Provided it's not all your fault and you deserve it. I can't make any promises about that."

"I know. Same for you. Apart from the bad parts. You've… you've never done anything to make me think those apply to you."

"Damn right I haven't. You okay to go now?"

 _I'll never be okay_ , Pilcrowe thought. "Yes."

 

-

 

"You know the drill," said Pilcrowe, holding out her phone so that the librarian could see. "Take us here."

The librarian's glowing face pulled itself into a frown as he studied the screen. "I'm sorry, I don't think we have that novel on file."

"You do. Look again."

"Now, I'd love to help you," said the librarian, "because after all it's not as if I've been doing anything else all month, except from clear up after tentacled monstrosities…"

"And we're very grateful," said Pilcrowe. She was probably being honest, Random thought. Pilcrowe was nothing if not honest, at least most of the time. The gritted teeth and strained voice were probably because she was out of practice. That was all. Probably.

"But that novel doesn't exist!" protested the librarian. "You're asking me too much! I simply cannot work under these conditions!"

"It does exist. It was never finished. Take us there."

"That is against regulations!"

"Listen," said Pilcrowe. "I'm not feeling at my best today, but I'm making an effort to be nicer to people. So I'll offer you a choice. Either you take us to this novel that is written so plainly on my screen, or my client here, who I might add is a very talented scientist, will personally rewire your circuits until you do. Take your time."

"Right this way," said the librarian.

He crackled and shot from shelf to shelf, stopping every now and again to let Random and Pilcrowe catch up. Random had been in the library enough times to know her way around all the main genres, and although she wasn't sure where crime fiction would sit under the librarian's baroque system, this wasn't it.

She'd never been so deep into the library. Tall shelves, lined with ancient, leather bound books, blotted out the light. Falling motes drifted in what secondhand illumination filtered to the floor and settled on shelves undisturbed for years.

"It is here," The librarian crackled back into humanoid form. "You're on your own opening it." And with that he was gone, leaving the two characters alone to ponder the door. It was covered in locks spanning across the wood, most of them rusted shut. Even an inexplicable skill in lock picking wasn't going to help them here.

"It's a metaphor," Pilcrowe leaned over in a crouch, hands resting on her thighs, and studied the door.

"What is?"

"These locks. Metaphors, all of them. Need a good metaphor breaker to get through, that's all. Now if we were on the inside, no trouble. From the outside… oh, that's something… You! Your thing! Your… machine thing! The one that goes ding!"

"What, this?" Random held up the shovel detector.

"Does it do doors?"

"It does shovels." But there was a thought again, a creeping hypothesis that entered via the back of her head and slowly worked its way into her thoughts. "It's a trail detector. It… opens up channels in the fabric between novels. And I've got infinite battery power!"

"Do it."

"Right onto it." She settled herself down on the floor and unhooked the phone from the detector and laid the now inert mass of metal aside, and opened the program. "Here goes."

It made sense now that she thought of it. In a way, she was doing the opposite of what she had done that morning at the last murder scene. Then, she'd been trying to dampen the onslaught of data from the trail. Now, she needed to expand it. The groundwork was already there, but it was simply a matter of reprogramming to accept a greater input, and to leave a greater output in it wake.

Pilcrowe paced up and down, occasionally turning her attention back to the door. Once, she gave it a kick, slamming her boot into the densest configuration of locks. Random didn't look up.

She had no idea what would happen when she slotted her phone back in, but the detector didn't explode immediately on contact. "Okay," she said. "Lets see what this thing can do."

"Ready for it?" said Pilcrowe. Her kicking hadn't done anything to dislodge the door.

"Yeah," Random got to her feet, hooked the detector back over her shoulder, and hefted it up in her hands. "Better stand back. I'm going to try science."

It wasn't like all the other times. Random had tuned it in to the only thing she knew to have passed through the door, and that was Pilcrowe herself, using her long ago trace to open a link.

How long had it been? She should have asked, she thought, as the detector began to shake and the screen flickered through patterns faster than the eye could discern. But maybe it was better not to. She just had to force he way through with what she had…

The handles were hot in her hands, threatening to burn…

Her eyes screwed shut…

_Ding._

She let go, slinging the detector back over her shoulder to let it cool off. "What happened, we did it?"

"If your definition of did it is melted the locks into nothing, then we have achieved it."

Random opened her eyes. Trails of molten metal, still glowing in places, ran down a door that now hung ajar from the heat. "Wow."

"You remember earlier," said Pilcrowe, "when I said I was ready."

"Yeah?"

"I may have lied to make you feel better."

"I'm cool with that."

Random let Pilcrowe go first. It seemed like the right thing to do.


	12. That Damn Spade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now everyone's got what they wanted. And everything's going to be okay.
> 
> Right?

_In Week Two I usually realise I'm not writing the story I thought I was - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

The door opened out into a dull night, blanketing a city of forbidding, tall buildings and hidden cellars. Street lights illuminated a pavement slick with rain from a clouded sky with no moon or stars. Random's first thought, as she felt drizzle cling to her hair and weigh it down, was that she had been here before, and immediately she recalled Foreshadow City's dark, rain washed streets.

Any plot had been here had long since gone. But it left behind a sensation in the air, as if the weather itself was waiting for something to happen.

"The same," said Pilcrowe.

"Was it always like this?" said Random. Feels like something's just about to happen."

"It does." Pilcrowe's hands were in her pockets again, but this time it was the pocket of her voluminous tan coat, which was pulled tight around her with the collar turned up. "We were at forty five thousand words. Thought for sure we were going to win. I knew everything that was going to happen. We waited. Thought the story wanted to come back when it had more time. Maybe it wanted to do a better good job. Cedilla… she was around then too, not the same as she is now, and we'd never met, but she was there… she said that was a bad idea, to pick up a story and think you could only do it justice when you had more time. But I waited anyway. Then one day I realised nothing was going to happen. Whole place was as dead as some metaphor. That's when I walked out of that door. Never turned back. Started my agency, met Cedilla… had a good life, since. Could have been worse. Could have still seen this thing finished. All for the sake of five thousand words."

"I'm sorry," said Random.

"Don't need to be," said Pilcrowe. "I've been sorry enough. Almost does me good to see nothing's changed around there. Used to wonder if it'd ever get picked back up again, without me."

"You were the main character."

"Yes. But that's gone now. I've got my agency. I've got Cedilla. Not a bad life."

 _Is it?_ thought Random. It wasn't her space to pry, but she didn't doubt anything Pilcrowe said about Tildeworth. Whatever else happened, that was firm. But the rest, that was less certain. It didn't excuse the anger at her, but Pilcrowe wasn't okay, not by a long margin.

 _And neither are you,_ she thought. She'd needed that good, long cry, and not just because of what Pilcrowe had said. She really had spent these past few days thinking this was a grand adventure. They'd tracked down the Shovel, but they were still no closer to finding what it had done with Neo, or all the other missing characters, and if the contents of Tildeworth's show (which might as well have been dubbed the Tildeworth Mail Sorting Hour lately) were anything to go by, that was a lot more than two characters alone could investigate.

But you couldn't stand around when there was work to be done, she she hunched over the detector to protect it from the rain and checked the screen. "Okay, it still does shovels," she said. "Do we go looking now? What would it be doing here, anyway? There's nobody to kill. There's no plot."

"Good hiding place?" said Pilcrowe. "What better place to hide than somewhere nothing ever happens? We'll do what we always do, and ask questions."

"There are people here?"

"Yes."

Random said nothing. She knew stories didn't always finish themselves. The win rate had never been that high, and even a win didn't mean a completed story. Obviously they had to stop somewhere.

But she'd never once asked herself what happened to the novels that didn't get finished. Neo never talked about it. She'd never heard anyone discuss the possibility of it over dinner at Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners. Even Tildeworth had little to say about it. Nobody ever wanted to think that they might lose.

Her drizzle scattered hair and lab coat clung to her body as they walked, and she held the shovel detector tighter to her chest.

"Look," Pilcrowe said. "Over there. It's still open…"

Random rounded a corner, and saw a light in the dark. A broad window opened up into a bar, its frosted visage blotting out all but the warm light that spilled out onto the street. Music too, faint against the rain but still audible, emanated from the doors. It was a haven in the dark and the damp, a tiny beacon against the empty night.

"The other characters?" said Random

"They didn't want to leave."

"Look," said Random, "if you don't want to go in there, we don't have to. We can trail the shovel from here, I'm sure." She didn't know what, if anything, had happened between Pilcrowe and her co-stars, but the last thing she wanted to do was make a bad situation worse.

"Thought you didn't forgive me."

"I didn't," said Random. "Just trying to keep going."

She held back when Pilcrowe opened the door, and followed at a respectful distance.

People sat around a bar, lit by warm lamps shaded in orange and yellow glass. An old radio, just like the one in Pilcrowe's office, piped out crackling music. Everyone looked up as the pair stepped inside.

In accordance with ancient narrative laws, the music stopped.

"Pilcrowe?" said a thin man seated at the bar. "Is that you or did I drink too much again?"

Random, trying not to look conspicuous, stood in the doorway and looked down at the detector. It was picking up something, almost unbidden. The thing was still here, somewhere in the dark city.

"Rob!" Pilcrowe took a few shaky steps forward. "Been a while. Random." She looked back. "This is Rob. Rob the Rat. He did it."

"Name like that, you can't be much else than the murderer," said Rob. "Who's this? Not from around here, are you?"

"Er, no," said Random. "I kind of hired your er… friend here? Just dropping by, you know?"

"Oh well, you and your gadget there are welcome here!" said Rob. "Come on, sit down." He held out a slim hand, and Random extended hers for him to shake. Pilcrowe, meanwhile, had already taken a seat, so Random supposed she may as well be polite and join her. She took a well worn stool at the bar.

"We thought you weren't coming back," said another character, a woman in an elegant dress. "It's been years."

"Didn't think I was."

"Please tell me you'll be staying for drinks?" said Rob.

"None for me, thanks," said Random. "Too much to do."

Pilcrowe, meanwhile, was still talking. Well, that was understandable. Talking about her agency, about Tildeworth… well, that was understandable too. She didn't want to be jealous, or anything. These people were old friends, not just random protagonists she needed to interview. Everything made sense.

The shovel detector, resting on the bar top, scrolled on through the program. A tiny radar screen in the upper corner flashed at her, and spun.

Pilcrowe had a drink in her hand now. She was gazing into it, and smiling with such a genuine expression Random wouldn't have believed it, if only she hadn't seen it before, whenever Tildeworth called. "Hey… Sue? Don't want to interrupt the party, but I'm getting a reading…"

Pilcrowe stared on.

"Sue?"

"Mmm?"

"I think… I think you're doing the thing. The thing you told me not to do, or you couldn't come with me? Yeah, that thing. I kind of… really need you to not do that right now…"

"Am I? Oh. I see."

"Sue…" Random nudged her bar stool a little closer. "I think I'm getting a reading."

"Oh, so you are." Pilcrowe was looking at the screen now, which was to say her eyes were pointed in a random direction, and that just so happened to be where it was.

"Yeah so… I kind of think we ought to be looking at it here?"

"Mmm…"

"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

But Pilcrowe was engrossed in the chatter of her colleagues again, and Random remembered, not for the first time, that this was not her scene, and these were not her people. Pilcrowe had been thrust back into the stage, was meeting people she'd known a long time ago and didn't have any idea she'd even meet again. What if this wasn't what had affected her, but plain and simple connections? Random was out of her social depth here, and as much as she was sure nobody wanted to be rude, these things did happen. Well, she was sure Pilcrowe would take any chance to be rude, but she was usually a lot more direct than this.

The screen whirred on, like a cat wanting to be fed at three am.

"I… I'm just slipping out, okay? I need to get some data, at least. I need good data. Good data's what science is all about, right?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, I will." Random slid down from her bar stool, and hefted the shovel detector over her shoulders. Pilcrowe didn't say anything about it. "Be back soon, okay?" She stepped back out into the perpetual drizzle, shielding the equipment with one hand.

"At least one of us is doing something useful," she said, as she set off after the trail.

 

-

 

This… this was good, Pilcrowe thought. Random had gone, but she was off doing science, and science always made her feel happy, so she'd be happy for her, then. That way everyone could be happy. People ought to be happy.

The plot was long gone. Yet some of its remnants still tugged at her, as if her presence had caused them to return as the ghosts of ideas.

"Don't know why I ever left," she said, gazing down into her drink. There'd been reasons. There'd been people, later, lots of people. But this was right. This wasn't the Nexus. No feeling like she didn't belong here. If she could spend her time here, in this bar, forever, then that… that would be nice.

"I remember," Rob said. "You thought nothing was going to happen"

"Mmm," said Pilcrowe. Big fight about it, wasn't there? You all wanting to stick about in case something happened and me saying no, no, nothing will?"

"Sorry I yelled at you," he said. "It was… not the best of days."

"Not your fault."

"Not yours either."

"Mmm," Pilcrowe mused. "Lots of regrets, out there. But it's okay, here. Okay now. Just like old times, yes?"

"Yes, I think so too," said Rob.

Something brushed up against Pilcrowe's hair. She heard a click, dangerously close to her ear.

The gun did the work of several espresso shots in a fraction of the time. "Rob? What?" She hardly dared to move her head, but she could see the others watching, out of the corner of her eyes. Not a single one of them made a move. Frozen with fear… no, they were all too relaxed. Even her blurred side vision could see that. They were all in on it.

A detective notices things. That is what being a detective is all about. But not when she is blinded.

"Because I waited," said Rob. "That's all. Waited. Waited while you ran off to your fancy new life. Walked off, and moved on."

"Didn't move on," Pilcrowe said. Keep him talking, that was the trick. Keep him talking until he let something vital slip. What was he going to do, fire the thing?

What happened if you died in a novel that had been abandoned?

"You didn't think it though, did you? Ever stopped to think of what happens to those of us who got left behind?"

"Nothing. That's why I left." Keep talking, and the messy feelings can wait…

"And did anyone there stop to think about what happened?"

"No." What else could she say? She was many things, but not a liar. "No, they did not. But… Rob…"

"Yeesss?"

She could feet the gun barrel moving when he spoke, feel it brush against individual hairs. "There's still no need for this. I know you were the villain, I know you did all those murders, but none of them were real. We were all just stories."

"They were. We are. And I'm the one with the gun to your head." She felt him move as he leaned closer, to whisper in her ear. "Just like old times."

 

-

 

Fuzzy halos of light encircled street lamps in the misty air. Drizzle blurred the road ahead, and specks of water marred the detector's screen. Random tried to shelter them as best she could.

The signal was so strong here, and the detector bolstered by her latest round of improvements, that she could trace it to within metres. As far as she could tell, it hadn't moved. The screen displayed a glowing blue map of the surrounding streets, contrasting sharply with the diffuse orange lamps reflected in its glare.

Random walked on, turning and orienteering herself at every corner, until she stood by a tall office building. Broad stairs led into a stone archway, providing a little shelter from the rain. She stopped in its shadows, rubbing the screen dry with her sleeve, and looked up. A pair of double doors, twice as tall as herself, led inside. The detector, still showing its street map, flashed a red dot over the exact same building she stood outside now.

The door swung open with ease. The red dot blinked, over and over, in the same space.

Inside she found a lobby area, lit only by street lamps outside. She paced up and down in the dim light, training the detector over desks and chairs. She saw typewriters and stacks of paper, old phones and desk lamps set with the same warm coloured glass as the bar, but there was no stronger trace. She lifted it higher, and the dot grew more intense, blinking a little faster.

"Getting warmer, am I?" she said, out loud. The sound of a voice, even if only her own, was better than silence wrapped in the scarcely audible, yet incessant drumming of the rain outside.

She found a lift door, and pressed the button to summon it. A fan shaped ticker over the doors showed its procession. The hand, like a clock, spun slowly over the numbers and reached 1 with a tiny chime. When Random stepped inside, she was bathed in nothing but blue light that cast an eerie glow over her white coat, accented by a single splash of red.

Without any idea where she was going, she pressed the top floor, and watched the screen. The ride was a smooth one but Random didn't notice the motion. She kept her eyes on the floor display and the flashing red light. Faster and faster it went, brighter and brighter, leaving a crimson splash over her chest like the beating of a fast paced heart. By the time she reached the top floor, she saw faint afterimages every time she blinked.

The doors slid open, and now there was no sound at all, only the background hum of an empty room that remains when everything else is gone.

Even with the screen held right to her chest, she could see the light bleeding across her coat, pulsating in time with her heart. She wanted to speak. She wanted to hear a voice again, even if it was just her own, but he throat was frozen.

She urged herself on, stalking the corridors until she was sure, from the fast beating light, that she had the right door. If Pilcrowe was to be stirred from her reminiscing, she'd need a reason to come here. And then, it wouldn't be so bad, with two.

If she hadn't known better, she would have thought she'd walked into Pilcrowe's office again. Rain slid in little streams down a window part obscured by half open blinds, and the light from a street lamp right outside spilled into the room and traced slatted markings across the floor and desk. She took a step forward and froze again as the floorboards squeaked underfoot.

Nothing happened. She made a run for the desk, fumbling at the lamp and looking for a switch.

Warm light flooded the office. Random leaned over the desk, letting the detector rest upon its surface to take the weight off her back. Deep breaths now, that was the thing. Everything was okay. She was just an idiot who hadn't thought to turn on the lights before now, that was all.

"Must be why she's the detective and not me," she said, to the air. There, that was better. Everything was normal now. She shrugged the shovel detector off her shoulders, and rubbed at where the straps had dug into her skin.

Something black caught the corner of her eye.

She looked over her shoulder and saw it, sitting in a corner.

Immediately she turned back to the detector, checking the readout scrolling behind the map. She looked again. It hadn't moved.

The Travelling Shovel of Death looked… normal, if the word could be used to describe the practice of leaving gardening equipment lying around in old fashioned offices. It stood propped up on its blade in a corner, its metal surface tarnished to a deep matte black by years of use. Certainly it looked deadly enough with a good swing or throw as Random could attest to, but all in all, it looked like a rather stupid thing to be afraid of. It was like being afraid of clowns, with the exception of the fact that clowns were genuinely frightening.

Indeed, in any other situation, this would have been an honour. She might as well have been standing next to Mr Ian Woon, for all this meant.

"Now what?" she said.

The Shovel didn't say anything. Shovels didn't talk. Random was a scientist, and quite sure of that fact

She could go back for Pilcrowe now, but that would be leaving the thing here, and who knew if it would oblige to stay behind? She unslotted the phone from the detector, wondering Pilcrowe might pick up hers, but gave up on that idea when she noticed it was displaying the no signal message. Of course, the only phones around here were the big two piece things like the ones from the lobby. The only way she'd get a signal out here would be if Tildeworth were around, and Random had no idea how she managed her impossible phone calls. She'd asked a few times, because being a scientist she couldn't not investigate such a thing, but nothing Tildeworth said made any sense. All Random could piece together was that it had… something… to do with specific applications of radio waves, but despite knowing the electromagnetic spectrum forwards, backwards, upside down and in various dimensions incomprehensible to most minds, it didn't click. It had served only to leave Random feeling stupid and Tildeworth looking very puzzled at the idea that she couldn't grasp it, because it was so simple. Broadcaster powers, Random had decided.

Perhaps she could simply pick the thing up and take it away?

No, not so fast. That was going to require prior testing. There was a stack of papers beside her, impaled on a desk spike and scrawled with names and addresses. Whoever they belonged to, they probably wouldn't miss them too much. She ripped off the top one, screwed it into a ball, and hurled it at the Shovel with all the force of a frustrated writer.

The paper ball bounced off the Shovel, and rolled away onto the floor.

"Hmm," said Random. But every good experiment must be able to be replicated, so she tried a few more. None of the balls exploded into flames, or seeped blood, or were sucked away into a black, pulsating void. They simply formed a loose array of scrunched paper all over the floor, like the fallout from the world's most inept wastebasket aim.

She pulled off her lab coat and bundled it into a ball. Holding it out in front of her, she nudged the Shovel with the mass of cloth. It rocked a little at her touch, but, yet again, nothing happened.

Still, she could stand to be cautious, so she wrapped part of the coat around her hand, and with that, reached out to touch the Shovel.

Her fingers clasped around cold metal. Her breath catching in her throat, she lifted.

And darkness engulfed her.


	13. All Known Frequencies

_At the first awkward line of prose or botched brushstroke, we hurriedly pack away the art supplies and scamper back to our domains of proficiency. Better a quitter than a failure, our subconscious reasoning goes. - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

Tildeworth sat at her desk and typed. For at least the last hour, she'd been unable to open a channel to Sue's phone.

That was only to be expected, of course. Sue had gone somewhere where only the best could trace her, and Tildeworth didn't have the benefit of anything at her destination other than a relatively primitive radio network. Normally that wouldn't be a problem - Tildeworth had spoken to her in a whole host of novels over the past week that didn't even have that - but with every other barrier between them now, it was causing more problems than she could count.

Her fingers shook, filling her screen with a typo ridden mess. For every command she entered, she had to fix another one. She pushed the laptop away over the desk, closed her eyes, leaned back in the chair, and let herself drift.

 _Not sleep,_ she told herself. Between the coffee and her promise to Sue, she wasn't going to sleep for a long, long time. But that was okay. Not sleeping was what NaNoWriMo was all about.

The sensation of sitting in a chair melted away, and below she saw bars of blue and bars of green, some short, some long, all racing toward a common goal…

Onward now. Past rows and rows of purple, the triumphs of previous years, past all those, and on, beyond…

And now blue bars again, but no longer moving, outnumbering ever live bar, every purple bar. _I didn't think. I didn't do-_ and the bars vanished. She pushed herself back, like swimming to the bottom of the ocean under immense pressure. And there they all were again, laid out under her form of pure electromagnetism, each one frozen in time.

A good broadcaster could reach _anywhere._

She sank back into her body, back to the laptop in front of her, and began typing as if Day Thirty was upon her with all its vengeance, hanging on to her thoughts that threatened to run like delicate fragments of a dream. The laptop scanned, connected…

Tildeworth slumped back into her chair, her energy gone, her eyes closed again.

_Briiing._

She opened one eye.

The tinny ringtone, emanating through the laptop speakers (she had always winced at the dreadful sound quality, but she did need portability) brought her back to the world. She sat up, waiting, hunched over her keyboard and the laptop's microphone. The call rang on.

Maybe Sue was busy. It wasn't easy, being a detective, You couldn't pick up your phone any old hour. Yes, that was it. It would be like taking a call in the middle of a show. Nobody would stand for that, least of all Tildeworth herself.

She let it ring anyway, just in case. Sue sometimes took a while to find where her phone was - hardly a surprise, with all those pockets - so she left the laptop to run whilst she went about her business. More coffee, that was a start. Even with the jolt from hearing the call connect, she wouldn't last long without it. Not for the first time, she was exceedingly grateful that fictional characters didn't need to use the toilet unless it was plot relevant.

The grinder whirred. The kettle boiled. The call rang on. Tildeworth gulped down the first mouthful. It wasn't too bad, once you got used to it…

The chirpy little ringing noise subsided, replaced with a grating error tone. When at last she heard Sue's voice, it was only a recording.

"This is S. C. Pilcrowe of S. C. Pilcrowe's Inter-Novel Investigation Agency," said the recorded message. "I can't take your call now, and I'm probably busy with something more important than it anyway. If you must leave a message, do so now."

There was a beep.

"H… hello, Sue?" Tildeworth said, into the microphone. "It's me, Cedilla. Look, I just called… I can't stay here, and I suppose you are busy, and there must be so much going on. So many things I don't even understand! But… I promised I would call you. And I have to go now. I have a show starting soon, and I need more coffee… oh, I stole your coffee. I'm sorry. Did I tell you? I don't remember. I hope you don't mind! I'll get you more, I promise. All your favourites. Even the one where the weasel gets involved! But I just wanted to say-"

The timer ran out, and the laptop beeped again. Tildeworth folded it and slung it under her arm. It was all up to Sue, now. She'd know how it was going to end.

 

-

 

"You know," Pilcrowe said, "the ropes are a little overkill. It is not as if I would be going anywhere. You are the one with the gun."

"Maybe," said Rob the Rat, "but it's all about the look of the thing. And this way I don't get hand cramps."

"You do have a point."

It wasn't as if there was anything inherently uncomfortable about being tied to a chair. It was just very inconvenient. It was even worse when your arch enemy refused to indulge in a spot of gloating and conveniently telling you their plan. But at least it gave her time to think.

And at least Rob had stopped ranting about his motives, which was a relief. Not only because they were rather dull, but because he was right. People in the Nexus could have done something. She could have done something, if she hadn't been spending her days putting herself back together.

It was too much to think of. Better to let the mind percolate over the immediate situation. Sooner or later, he was going to let slip his plan. "Doing anything tonight?"

"Ah yes, let's all sit down and have a nice talk about what I'm planning to do and exactly when and how I'll be doing it, shall we? No, I'm afraid my diary is full, and I won't be able to fit you in tonight. Sorry."

"It was worth a try."

"I suppose it must be rather boring for you," said Rob. He sat down on the bar top, head in hands, looking down at her.

"Oh no, not at all," said Pilcrowe. "I'm having a lot of time to think. Never underestimate the value of a few quiet moments, I believe. I've had a lot to think about in the last few days, and not enough time to do any thinking. Might say you've done me quite a favour."

In the depths of her pocket, her phone began to ring.

Rob sat hunched over on the edge of the bar, twiddling his fingers. The gun was still by his side, but he didn't touch it.

"And given that there's no plot here to stop me," Pilcrowe went on, "if you shot me, I'd probably just walk back in later. Suppose that explains the ropes."

The phone kept ringing. Pilcrowe tried to ignore the sound.

"Ah, but no plot, no problem?" said Rob. Several of the other characters moved closer, watching the scene.

"They do say that," Pilcrowe said. "Although I'm less certain whether or not it applies to the situation we're in now. It does make me wonder. Perhaps you'd have less of a problem if you had something else on your side. Something old, and powerful, and beyond the realm of you and me?"

Rob raised an eyebrow. "The Validator hasn't been around these parts in years."

"No? Any dares crossed your path lately?"

Rob laughed, a quick chuffing sound of disbelief. "Susan, this is a serious novel!

"No serious dares, then? I'd say a shovel murder could fit in here quite nicely. Honestly, I'm surprised the Travelling Shovel of Death never came this way."

"You know," said Rob, "whoever that is who's calling you must really want to talk to you."

 _Got you._ "They will have to leave a message."

"Any idea who it is?"

There was only one person who could. "Absolutely none."

"That's a shame."

"I know. I suppose it's a little anachronistic of me, but has its uses." The phone stopped as she spoke, letting out a little beep to tell her it had gone to voicemail.

"Oh well, so much for that," said Rob.

"Yes, what a shame. I do apologise for my rudeness, but I forgot where we were back there. Was it something about the Travelling Shovel of Death? Because I was thinking about how if you wanted to pull off some very good murders, you might make a little pact with it?"

"You'd make a very good villain, don't you know that?"

"I like to think of myself as an functional anti-hero."

Rob was about to reply, but he was interrupted by a scream that cut through the air. It was at once far away and close by, distant, but immediately recognisable, and even Pilcrowe could not hide the look that crossed her face.

"Was that your friend?" Rob said. "That's a pity. We were just getting to know one another."

 

-

 

Random fell, slipping into the dark, aware of half heard words and phrases. There was no space or time here, simply existence, and the chatter of the dead.

The Shovel was old. It had roamed far and tasted much blood, but what happened to those who died by its blade? Random knew the answer to that. They died, and they returned to the Nexus, and they got a prime interview spot on Tildeworth's show. Everyone knew that.

Something had changed this year.

The Shovel had no consciousness to speak of. The Shovel simply _was._ It had no need of anything but its purpose. Random saw this all in one instant that stretched out before and inside of her - every bludgeoning, every moment found with blood on the blade.

She saw and heard and felt every last thought of the dying, in every story. She saw them pick up and move on, afterwards, their jobs done for the year. She saw things as they should be.

The onslaught of the dead came faster and faster with every year, every sense aflame with more than she could handle. Each time the fallen got back up, and moved on.

Faster and faster, she plummeted through the memories.

Now the dead fell, but they did not rise again. Their minds went blank, never to see or hear or feel again…

 

-

 

"I imagine the properties of the shovel could be altered?" said Pilcrowe. She let her thoughts do what they did best, running over all that she knew. They grasped a thread that had lain dormant. "But it's not about the Shovel, is it? That's just something to help you along with your real goal."

"What would make you believe that?"

Pilcrowe closed her eyes, and let her chin rest against her collarbone. "Because I am a detective. I do detective things."

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"Believe me, not so long ago I would have agreed."

"Ah well, it doesn't matter now. If you asked me the real question, I'd say that maybe I wanted my friend back. Pulled that off well, didn't I? I suppose it's time to move on, now." He looked up, and when he spoke again, he was addressing someone behind Pilcrowe, though the doors had not opened, and nobody had moved. "Yes, now would be a good time. Get a move on, would you?"

Pilcrowe craned her head around, as much as the ropes would allow, first one side, and to the other, and there was nobody there. And yet…

And yet there was a cold wind at her back, as if someone had left the door open and the drizzly night had come on in. Cool air ruffled her hair, and burrowed into her thoughts.

 _You have no idea what you are doing,_ they said. _You never knew._

 

-

 

Random opened her eyes, and stared up into a ceiling fan that had stood motionless for many years, and would never turn again.

She lay, and stared, and thought of nothing. Her lab coat was still wrapped around her hand, piling into a loose heap where she had fallen. Out of the corner of her eye, the Shovel remained where it was.

She should probably do something about that.

When she sat up, it was as if the world had dialled itself down, and time ran in slow motion. Even the light had lost its warm, fiery edge. She was aware of colour and motion, but they were all incidental things, not worth paying attention to.

She still wasn't thinking when she took the lift downstairs and exited into the damp night. There wasn't any need to think. All her questions had been answered. There wasn't anything left to do but go home.

She wanted to cry again, like she had that morning, so she could feel something, but she couldn't even bring herself to do that.

When she passed by the bar, she saw the faint shape of people inside, talking, and laughing.

So she had found her answers, and Pilcrowe was happy. They both got what they wanted. Sometimes the data said something you didn't like, something you desperately wished wasn't true. But you couldn't put it away and deny what you saw in front of you. That was not the way a scientist worked.

She walked on, through the door, into the forgotten library wing.


	14. Free Shrimp Dinner

_This is your time to fly. - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

The problem with a live audience was that participation figured plummeted mid-month, when everyone was busy with their novels. Tildeworth didn't mind, because she had the satisfaction of knowing that people would still be watching across the novelsphere. But she had never been as grateful for a nearly empty studio as she was now. The show must always go on, but sometimes it was a lot easier to talk with a camera between yourself and your audience.

"Today I'd like to take a moment to talk to you, as I do every year, about the importance of backups," she said. She had so much to say, but so few words, and right now it was easier to default to something she was going to say anyway. Even a Personification of NaNoWriMo had their limits. "Every year, myself and my friends receive devastated letters from those of you who may have lost their work owing to catastrophic errors in the fabric of your story. This year is no exception." There'd been a few of them hidden in with all the letters about the Shovel (which themselves had been a mixture of sightings, alleged sightings, stories from someone who hadn't seen it themselves but swore that their best friend's cousin's pet gerbil had, and concerned onlookers wondering if they should only be worried about the Shovel or if, say, they needed to keep a close eye on any spades or trowels that might be lying around). "Some of you may not have gotten around to creating a backup of your story Now imagine if all that were gone! Suddenly all the things you had done in the last few days, perhaps even weeks, would have never happened! Imagine the _terrible_ , _devastating_ consequences that would have on your timeline. Imagine remembering things, and yet knowing that they were never real!

"Of course those of you in the speculative fiction genres may be tackling a time travel story this year, and may experience those effects anyway, but that is to be expected. If your story involves time travel in any way, shape, or form, then you have every right to feel this way, and may your story be as convoluted and back to front and upside down and out of order as you please! Nobody will mind that, and if they do, they are being _highly_ unreasonable.

"But imagine having lost all your work because you didn't back up your novel. All temporal and existential concerns aside, you would have to do it all over again, and that would put a dreadful dent in your productivity this month.

"So please, back up your novel. Just be sure it's authorise! You can find backup facilities all around the Nexus, or take a look on our website for…"

She felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. She'd worn one of her warmer shirts today (the pink and purple striped one) as the weather had taken a turn for the chilly, but it was November, so that was not so unexpected.

But someone was waiting outside the studio entrance.

"I do apologise. It would seem we have a guest on the show today. This is a little unscripted, but let it never be said that NaNoWriMo isn't about embracing the unexpected. Vicki, could we swing the camera over so all our friends at home can see?"

Vicki, hovering behind the camera, banked to turn it and follow the figure's entrance. "Hello there," Tildeworth said. "I don't know if we've met, but if you're on the show today would you be willing to- oh. Oh _dear._ "

A drifting, grey figure cut a path across the floor. Where it passed, the air shimmered and the studio appeared dull and worn. Tildeworth and Vicki shared a brief glance. Vicki nodded. Behind her, a small crew of dares had begin to escort the meagre audience outside. Some stared, guessing what was going on, others whispered and protested about the show being interrupted, but one by one they filed out until there was nobody left but Tildeworth.

She remained in her chair. Whatever happened, the show had to go on.

"Ah, I believe we may have met after all, have we?"

The figure hovered beside her. There was no hint of a body underneath, only a plain, hooded robe, drifting in an intangible breeze. As she watched, Tildeworth remembered that the cameras were still running. All across the Nexus and beyond, people were watching. She shouldn't just stare like this. She should say something. She looked ridiculous.

"Listen," she said, "I am quite happy to grant you an interview, but you are cutting into valuable live television slot time, and I must insist that you-"

The figure transformed. The robe flew away, the hood flung back, dissolving into nothing. Though there had never been any sign of a body underneath, the figure now standing by Tildeworth's chair was humanoid. She was tall and skinny, dressed in a sensible shirt and a sensible mid length skirt, thin hands grasping a clipboard and pen. Her skin was pulled taught over a bony face, save for where it was furrowed into deep frown lined around her thin mouth. Stern eyes peered at Tildeworth from behind sharp rimmed glasses, under slicked back hair drawn into a tight bun.

Her pen tapped against the clipboard, daring Tildeworth to speak.

"Ah… viewers?" Tildeworth said. "It appears that we have in the studio today a special guest! A very special guest, an Inner-"

The Editor laid her hand on Tildeworth's shoulder, and everything went grey.

Tildeworth could have fought back. It wouldn't have been hard. The Editor was frail and bony to the touch, so brittle that she might snap at any moment, and none of it mattered. Why should it? Why should she bother to fight?

She was tired. She had slept in fits and starts, snatching what hours she could between filming and posting and sorting through the influx of mail that flooded her studio, and she had spoken to Sue and Random every day, even though they were gone and unreachable now. It had taken its toll. She should never have sat in front of the camera tonight. She should never have sat in front of it at all. She was nothing more than another talentless bore who had fooled herself into thinking that anyone would want to listen or would even care about her ramblings. All around her the elite, those with true gifts, watched and bemoaned the fate of their craft. She wanted everything and deserved nothing, for she had done nothing perfect enough to earn it.

What, then, was the point of fighting back? Why bother, when every dodge and blow was bound to be inept? Why bother, when millions were watching this live, and each and every one would laugh at her attempts at breaking free?

She would stop, she would give up everything, she would-

"Wrrrreeeeeeeoooowwwlll!"

The scream cut through Tildeworth's thoughts, and the bony hand let go. She opened her eyes, in time to see the Editor stagger back, screaming in her shrill voice as a flurry of brown and tan fur and feathers clawed at her face, "Cats don't fly! Cats don't fly!"

Tildeworth scrambled out of her chair as the Editor staggered backwards as though drunk, disorientated by the onslaught of claws and teeth and disregard for biology. She flailed her arms for balance, the clipboard flying from her grasp, and slammed right into Vicki's camera. It crashed to the floor with a resounding thud that Tildeworth could feel rise up through her feet.

She was going to have to do something she never, ever thought she would.

She crouched by the fallen camera, and laid one hand on it. _Work_ , she thought, _work, please_. "Ah," she said, as it flickered into life, "dear viewers, I owe you all an apology. First of all, your screens are working perfectly fine, I just so happen to be perpendicular at this moment. Secondly-" she looked back at the Editor's ongoing blind destruction, "it appears that due to circumstances completely beyond my control, we will have to cut this broadcast short. I greatly apologise to all of you who may have been watching, and I hate to break I to you all, but it seems we are experiencing some technical difficulties."

 

-

 

A vent grille loosened, wobbled, and crashed to the ground. From the empty hole emerged a hand, a pink and purple striped sleeve, and then Tildeworth hauling herself out and onto the ground below. Light from the rapidly fading sky dwindling down into the narrow alleyway she'd found herself in.

It had been Vicki who saved her the second time that day, Vicki who hauled her up to the missing ceiling tile and through the Ninja Exit. Tildeworth still had yet to see any ninjas, but perhaps they'd all fled early to avoid the rush. Her laptop safely tucked under her arm, and Vicki hovering by her side with steady wing beats, she looked around.

"You made it!"

Her staff were all here too, waving hands and paws and wings in her direction. "What are you doing here?" she said.

Emma, the rockhopper penguin and expert video editor, stepped forward, her yellow crest drooping. "We didn't know if you'd made it. And there… there isn't really anywhere else to go."

"Ey, she's right," said the familiar voice of Jeff, the pink stone armadillo.

"How do you mean?" she said, stepping past the assorted dares toward the mouth of the alleyway. She peered around the corner. "Oh."

The second moon had gone into hiding. Tildeworth couldn't blame it.

The low light had nothing to do with the natural progression of day into night. Rather it was as though an eclipse had fallen upon the square, leeching all the light and warmth and colour out of the world. The sky was a dark slate tone, the warm honey coloured stone a dirty desaturated shade. Nothing moved except for a few breezes, throwing up brief eddies of dust and paper scraps before settling again, and the Editors.

The square was full of them. Most were passive, in the same bodiless robe shape that billowed and moved in the absence of any wind, but others had shed their disguise and walked around with purposeful strides. All dressed in sensible greys, they wielded clipboards and ticked off anomalies with red pens.

Vicki hovered closer. With her free hand, Tildeworth reached up and petted her thick fur. She could feel the air stirred from her colleague's wing beats against her cheek.

"I'll talk to Marni," she said, stepping back into the relative safety of the alley. "She'll keep you safe, don't worry." She took out her phone, scrolled down to where it read MARNI WOON, KD, and pressed the call button.

The phone on the other end rang, but nobody answered.

"Okay, Brevewin. He'll be able to do something." Her brother could always get to the point when needed; Editors didn't stand a chance against him. But yet again, she found him (listed as BUTTFACE on her contacts) and called, and nobody picked up.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no…" The dares crowded around her feet. But she was not Marni Woon, and she could not give them a safe place to go, and she was not Macron Brevewin, and she could not give them any words to raise their spirits.

"It was a strike, I'll bet you," said Jeff. "All in one go. Take out t'strange ones first, all of you lot."

Tildeworth nodded. She was not a detective, and she was not a scientist, but she didn't need to be. "If you were an Editor and you wanted to get rid of… yes, that's exactly what I'd do. They hate absurdity, and they feed on it. They like nothing better than to correct the things about us that make no sense."

"It's going to be us next, isn't it?" said Emma.

Vicki hovered even closer, settling against Tildeworth's chest and folding her wings, her head nudging up against her chin. "What about you?"

Was it a trick of the light in here, or was the skin over the back of Tildeworth's hand a little greyer than usual?

"I don't know," she said.

But there was a thought in the back of her mind, something she had kept buried for years, something tucked away, safely, for when she would next need it, and if now was not the time, when was it?

"But I've got an idea," she said.

The dares exchanged glances.

"Thing is… you can't come with me. I'm not going to risk it. No, not even you," she said, looking down at Vicki. "I need you to stay safe, and I don't know how you're going to do that, but I know you won't be safe if you come with me. I think… I think you're going to have to work out what to do next by yourselves."

They were all watching her now, and what she wouldn't have given for Brevewin's way with words. But she pushed on, because that was what you did. You always pushed on, even if the words were not at their best.

"But if you stay safe, I need you to pass on a message for me, to everyone you find, if there is anyone out there… is that okay?"

More mutters and murmurs from the assorted dares, and then Jeff spoke up. "Tha knows I'll always do thee a favour!"

_Not grey_ , Tildeworth thought. _Just the light_. "T… thankyou," she said. "I don't know if I'll make it, but on the chance I do, this is what I need."

She told them.

"But… the Business?" said Emma.

"Don't worry about the Business," Tildeworth said. "It's all okay. I've got a plan."

 

-

 

It was quieter in the square when Random left the library, and started the long walk back to the place she used to share with Neo. At long last she opened the door, dislodging piles of built up takeaway menus, and let it slide closed behind her.

She pulled off her shoes and let her white coat fall to the floor beside them. Back in the lounge, she sank into the old, worn seat, and flicked the TV on.

White static and dead air greeted her.

Huh. That was strange.

She sat slumped in her chair, while dull and dirty light filtered through still, mote-laden air.

Laundry. That was… probably a good idea. Laundry was nice and dull, and it had been piling up all month.

After a few more minutes, she found the energy to get out of her seat, and began to empty her pockets, one item at a time. Cards and fliers, bits of change, paper clips, they all joined one another on the side table. She'd sort them out later. Not now. There was always too much to do, now.

The last item, a crumpled scrap of paper, unfolded as it joined its fellows, enough for Random to see a little of what was written inside. She picked it back up, and smoothed it out. The text was smudged and crumpled, but still legible.

 

_IOU One Free Shrimp Dinner_

_Even Though I Don't Have To Pay_

 

Random stared, and pocketed it again.

She ran to the window, to let some light in, and saw the scene outside - grey skies, grey Editors swarming the streets. How could she have walked past that? But the answer was already there in her mind, part of the knowledge that flowed freely ever since she had been rewritten. Inner Editors had no use for the depressed, but the bright, the lively, and the downright irrational, those they hated and wished to extinguish for all time.

And Tildeworth was off the air. She felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight. She should call someone, anyone - but she could not. Her phone was back in Pilcrowe's novel, lodged in the shovel detector and left forgotten.

Neo was gone. They were all gone. There was nothing she could do for them. She had no idea if anything could be done for Tildeworth. But there was one person for whom she could still do something.

It wasn't a long walk from her place back to the library, but it grew into one as she crept from street to street. The Editors in full form, their heels clacking on the pavement, were easy to hear and avoid. But it was the ones shaped like drifting, formless robes that were the hardest. They didn't fill her with the same levels of dread as their clipboard wielding kin, but they were silent and stealthy, and more than once she found herself pressed up against a wall whilst she did her best to think the dullest, most unimaginative thoughts she could think of. _Think of accountants,_ she thought. _I'm not wearing a lab coat. This is an accountant's formal white coat. I am Random the Accountant._

She might have burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of that thought, if she didn't round a corner to see the dead face of Club Ack! with its bright lights extinguished. Only then did she wonder how long this had been going on for. There hadn't been anything unusual that morning, not since they'd come to Pilcrowe's novel.

What if Pilcrowe herself had something to do with all this? Did Tildeworth know? No, no, she mustn't think of that. No doubts, no fears. They could smell those.

The last walk was across the square, to the library, and now there was nowhere to hide. Deep breath then, she told herself, in and then out, and across the open.

She didn't think. She hardly dared breathe. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of grey out of the corner of her eye, or the clack-clack-clack of heels on stone. She ignored it. She didn't speculate, not on her mission, not on Pilcrowe, not on anything. Her body moved forward, but her mind was still, all the way over the square, all the way up the stairs and in through the massive double doors, left ajar.

There were no characters, no crackling, pedantic librarians to escort them from novel to novel. There were only bookshelves, looming all above her, and no light save for what was left in the sky, filtering through the ceiling panels. "Hello?" she said, looking all around in the dark. "Anyone here?"

Nobody answered, only her voice echoing back.

There was, however, a desk, with a brass bell on the top and a sign instructing her to Ring For Assistance. So she did, and the bell sounded with a _ding_ that reminded her all too much of her beloved invention. A librarian crackled into existence above the desk.

"We're closed," he said, and immediately switched himself off.

Random, undeterred, rang the bell again. "No you're not," she said, as the librarian flared back into life.

"I think you'll find we are," he said. "Closed until further notice, didn't you read the sign?" he added, and switched himself off again.

"Not buying it." Random switched him back on. "For starters, there isn't a sign."

"Then I shall have a request sent through to put one up." Off, again.

"This is getting kind of stupid," Random rang the bell again. "Also, my hand's getting sore."

"There will be a sign up in the near future!" Off, once more.

"You know I'm just going to keep doing this, don't you?"

"They warned me about you!" Once again, he switched off, and Random was in the dark.

Her hand hovered over the bell for a moment before she rang it again. "Would you like to reopen?"

"We will open once normal functionality has been restored-"

"You mean the Editors?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, what if I said I could get rid of them?"

This time, he didn't protest, and stayed switched on, though he kept giving the door nervous glances and tapped his fingers against his holographic clipboard. "You… could do that?"

"I hope so! But you've got to help me and stop switching yourself off, okay?"

"Can I switch off after I'm done?"

"You can switch off all you want, but I need you. What's with all… this, anyway?"

"They came this morning. There was a terrible noise too, I tell you now! We couldn't get anybody to be quiet! Now everyone's hiding. You don't want to know what it feels like when…"

"I can imagine," said Random. "Look… I need to go there to stop them. Can you show me where they came from?"

It was Pilcrowe's novel, of course, and she never had any illusion it wouldn't be, but she was glad, when the librarian led her to the door with its melted locks, that he wasn't the one who'd escorted her and Pilcrowe that morning. Already she could feel the guilt rising. Did she do this? Were the Editors all sealed up inside there, and was it her act of opening the door that let them out? But no, it couldn't be. Pilcrowe had walked out of there easily enough. It was getting in from this side that was the hard part.

It didn't help. And what about the Shovel? Pilcrowe would know, she was sure of it, but Pilcrowe wasn't here.

"Look, I wouldn't say this to anyone," said the librarian, "but good luck?"

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks." Did he suspect her of opening the door? But she'd never know, because he switched himself off, there and then, without even bothering to dart back through the shelves.

It must be nice to be able to switch yourself off, Random felt, but that wasn't going to make any difference. As the old scientist's saying went, wanting something doesn't make it real. She she opened the door, and walked out into that dark, drizzly city again, forever frozen on the brink of resolution.

She passed by the bar, still with its lights and unintelligible chatter from within. Not now, she told herself. First things first. She ran into the old office building, steeling herself against the lack of lights, and ran back into the top floor room to find her detector, still sitting on the desk, untouched.

With a sigh of relief she slung it back over her shoulders, and only then did she notice the light, still flashing.

The Shovel was back, sitting in the corner as though it had never left.

"Alright, you," she said. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

She wrapped her coat around one hand, and brushed her fingertips against the metal. She could hear faint whispers on contact, but nothing more. Hardly daring to breathe, she released her hand, and touched it, wrapping her fingers around the handle.

She could still hear it. All its memories, all the darkness calling out to her, just as Tildeworth had described. It threatened to pull her under again.

Her grip tightened. She lifted the Shovel. It was dark iron from the heart of a dead star, pitted and worn, heavy with the weight of years of beatings and bludgeoning.

"Try that again on me," she said, "and I'll have you melted down."


	15. Façade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to go home...

_Finishing is bittersweet. It's like saying good-bye to an old friend, albeit a best friend who's been living with you rent-free and eating all your food. - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

At the same time as Random was journeying through the library and confronting the Shovel, Tildeworth was on her own furtive trail toward her apartment. Now she was rummaging through it, opening doors and drawers, pulling boxes from corners and from under the bed. She'd been around for years, longer than most of the Nexus' inhabitants, and she'd managed to accumulate more than her own fair share of junk in the meantime. A pangolin scale breastplate, lurking in a closet, went on over her pink and purple striped shirt. A plastic Viking helmet ended up perched on top of her ragged curls. In a box under the bed she found an old donor halo, which she hung from one of the horns at an angle, still faintly glowing despite its age.

Finally, she found the pencil. It was lurking in the back of a cupboard and took some effort to drag out, for it was half again as tall as Tildeworth herself and had to be held in both hands. But with it held just right, weighted so that the tip pointed upright and forwards, she could carry it with ease. It was made for running with, after all.

When she was done, she took out her phone and sent a text to the Validator, the one Personification she couldn't call and had yet to try. She had no idea if the high pitched whine, rising higher and higher until it reached an inaudible register that she was sure her phone could not produce in everyday circumstances, meant that it had arrived, but she liked to think it did.

Tildeworth wasn't like Random, or any of the dares or her other friends. She couldn't make herself into a small target. Pretending to be an accountant was right out. NaNoWriMo was infused within her in a way it simply was not with anyone apart from the other Personifications, and in there was the reason the Editors had struck first.

If she couldn't make herself no target at all, there was, logically, only one other way to go. Well, maybe there were others. But she had already established that she was no scientist or detective, so this was all she had. Armour, that was the idea. An Editor fed on irrationality, but what if you gave it too much to eat?

She had the chance to test her idea when a handful of them rounded a corner, all in their stealthy, robed forms. She stood fast, and gripped the pencil tight. "Hello."

They paused, drifting before her like a pack of confused ghosts. Already she could feel doubt creeping into her head. Shouldn't she have taken something a bit more substantial? Shouldn't she have followed up on her one time idea to install, in the station, a glass case filled with weapons, labelled 'Break In Case Of Editors'? Not that it would have done her any good, but wouldn't it be better than a giant pencil? Wouldn't _anything_ be better than a giant pencil?

They edged closer.

_It's just them,_ she told herself. _Not you._ She brandished the pencil again. They had her exit blocked now and when she looked back she noticed she was hemmed in, all around her.

Shouldn't she just stop, now, and try again when she had some idea of what she was doing?

But she had no idea. And that, above all, was the point. No plot, no problem.

She cleared her throat. This was going to suck.

"Excuse me!" she said, in perfect Comic Sans.

The Editors reeled at her voice, enough for her to make a break for it into to the square. A few of them transformed, ripping away their hooded robes to reveal sensible, grey forms beneath, sacrificing stealth for power. She ran on, holding the pencil just right under her arms, her laptop bag slamming against her side with every step. Her legs began to ache with the exertion, unfamiliar to someone whose day to day life involved sitting in a chair and talking.

The Gardens were close, just across the open stretch. The Editors were on her back, screaming about fonts and weaponry and horrible fashion sense. She pushed herself onward.

The wind was cold on her back…

The doors were ahead. She pushed, and they resisted, unwilling to give way to a pack of Editors. "It's me!" she hissed, and at last the doors opened, just enough to let her in before they slammed shut behind her.

Tildeworth let herself catch her breath as the fatigue in her legs ebbed away, and the background noise in her head faded. She was still here, still with all her stuff, leaning against the inner gates with a fresh breeze ruffling her hair. Only when she opened her eyes did she see what had happened.

The November Gardens had shut themselves out. Where there had once been fiery leafed trees lining paths that wound through the fields, now there were vines and brambles tipped with long thorns. She kept a tight grip on the pencil, and readjusted the plastic Viking helmet, the halo clattering against its side. "Still me," she said. "Come on…"

But the Gardens, willing as they might have been to let her inside, were less willing to let her pass, as if they knew what she was going to do.

"Look, I can't say this is going to work," she said. "But it's the only shot I've got, and besides, I had to walk out on a broadcast!"

A few of the vines twitched. Ragged clouds ran behind trees now stripped of their leaves, only stark black shapes against a red sky.

"You know Marni Woon's not here, don't you?" Tildeworth went on. "I don't know where she is, but she's not picking up her phone. And Macron Brevewin… I can't find him! He was the best frenemy I ever had! I mean, the Validator might still be around, but I've got no way of knowing. I sent it a text, but honestly I don't know how it even uses a phone! Anyway, I haven't heard back and I'm sure I wouldn't be able to read it if it did send me a text. I don't even know if I'd still have a phone!"

A few of the brambles pulled aside, revealing a little more stone underneath.

"So really, if you want something doing about all of this, I'm all you've got. And I _did_ just leave my viewers hanging. I have to do something about that. And I promise you, this is the only time I'm going to pull this. Promise! And um. Um. Please?"

She took a step forward, and the vines and brambles dissipated. Not too much, not enough that she could avoid the odd scratch or trip. The Gardens weren't about to forget this. But she was allowed to pass.

Time played its tricks again, stretching and compressing with every step. The trees thinned out as it passed, the grass withering and fading. Onward and onward she walked, over a path that had turned into a trail through rock and dirt. The trees were pines now, all thin and underfed, and then they thinned out to nothing. Now all that surrounded her was rock and ice, and her breath was mist in the air.

She was reminded of what had become of Script Frenzy. It was the same empty wilds, inhabited only by small roaming bands of rebels. But there were no rebels here. She had been here only once before, and she was sure of that.

She walked on. There was no track now, only her memories to guide her.

The hours stretched on. She kept pace, not too fast, not too slow. Her feet ached, but she would not stop.

The first she saw of anything other than the empty land was the tower, reaching over the horizon, and she knew she was on the right track.

More features resolved themselves as she walked in. A main building chunks of street around it, as if someone had ripped out part of a town and set it down, which was, in a way, exactly what had happened.

She had walked these streets too many times, and each one was a memory calling her back. She could close her eyes and drift away and pretend that she was there now, but when she opened them, there was nothing more than desolation.

The metal tower loomed over her as she made it to the front door. A metal plaque, set beside it, told her where she was, as if she had ever needed to ask.

 

WRIMO RADIO

ESTABLISHED 2005

 

She had lost so much, back then. But it didn't matter, she kept telling herself. She had been through so much more. She had lived, and loved, and had friends.

There was a keypad on the other side of the door. Tildeworth punched in her code without thinking - U007E. Now was not the time to resent. Now was the time to breathe deeply, and to let her awareness expand, to cover this lost place, to let it run one more time…

Picture the scene now…

An abandoned reception, potted plants long gone, desks covered in dust, a place where time may as well not pass ever again, for who could say when day became night deep inside its depths?

Then a crack of light in the door, and it opens, letting in cold air and dislodging the stillness of years. The door is pushed open, dislodging piles of envelopes lying unanswered by its step, all from the same address in North Wales and all addressed to people who have never worked here.

A figure enters, wreathed by the tiniest, imperceptible light, visible only in the darkness that is now banished by the open door.

More lights come on. Circuits and computers that have lain dormant for years fire into life, all at one command. The faintly luminescent figure climbs the stairs, leaving a trail of electrical activity in her wake.

There is a recording booth on the top floor. The figure settles in, as comfortable today as they have always been, even if they aren't the same any more. A bank of instruments light up, and there is light all around, light everywhere.

She clears her throat again, and speaks.

"Hello viewers. Or should I say listeners. I suppose I owe you all an explanation, but those will come, you can be sure of that. But for now… as I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted back there…"

 

-

 

"Should I give you this back?" said Rob the Rat. "It's not as if it's showing anything. Pity, really. You never get to watch a lot of television around here."

Pilcrowe's phone, which had displayed a clear picture of Tildeworth's flight from the Editor in her studio, now showed only a dead screen. She felt him slip it back into her coat pocket.

"I'm bored now," Rob went on, pouring himself another drink at the bar. "Almost regretting doing that. I mean, I had to do it. Can't have those personifications in the way, can we? But I'm a little regretful. Now I don't get to have any live coverage of the event."

"Yes, it is rather boring, I expect," said Pilcrowe. She continued to insist on not thinking. You just put all the bad thoughts on one side, and all the useful ones on the other, and listened to the useful side. It was easy on paper. In practice, the other side started pushing. She kept it down. There wasn't any time to feel bad about things now, not after all she'd seen and heard. Now was the time to think of something useful. But that, she could do almost automatically, her mind spinning the threads of reason in the background, and it left too much room for the bad things to creep in.

She was out of options, out of clever lines, and tired of looking unperturbed by everything, but she had one hope left. Rob hadn't left her side since he first pointed his gun, and neither had his friends, and that meant one possibility was still left.

There was a thud, on the door. Everyone looked up.

"Okay, I'm back. Now maybe you can explain - Oh. Okay then."

There, that was it.

"What are you doing here?" Rob snatched the gun and pushed aside his drink. "What are you holding that for?"

From her current position, it was a stretch to see the door, but if she tilted her head just right, she could see enough out of her glasses to watch as Random stepped inside, her red curls defying the rain, her white coat trailing behind her, and in her hands, the Travelling Shovel of Death, as docile as any old piece of gardening equipment she had ever seen.

At last, Pilcrowe allowed herself to smile. "I'm sorry Rob," she said, but it looks like you made a mistake. You see, your problem is that you are a villain. Normally that wouldn't be an issue. My dear Cedilla… she has always told me to never fear a villain, because they're just doing a job like the rest of us. But when you start to be a villain, there's your problem. You made a mistake, one that your own character type let you make. Do you know what it is?"

"He didn't check to see if I was really dead!" said Random, brandishing the Shovel.

"Exactly. Now if you'll excuse us all…"

"You shouldn't even be here!" snapped Rob, his gun pointed directly at Random. "How are you even touching it?"

Random shrugged. "Don't know. Hey, is someone going to explain to me what's going on? I only just got here and this wasn't exactly what I expected."

"I'll explain later," said Pilcrowe.

"That's not an answer!"

"Fine, then you're rescuing me."

"Oh, okay."

Rob was shaking now, but his gun was still aimed at Random. "Put it down!" he hissed. "You don't know what you're doing!"

"I don't like people who tell me I don't know things," said Random, walking closer. "But that's the thing about being a scientist, I guess, not knowing things. But you know what the fun thing is about being a scientist? You can always find out!" She was holding the shovel ready to strike now, and though Rob could have fired and brought her down where she stood, he didn't pull the trigger. "Go on, shoot," she said. "I'm kind of interested in finding out what comes next. But look, I'm holding this thing and it's had a lot to say to me, you know? I guess if you shoot me, I'll die. But unless I'm really wrong all that'll happen is I'll come back here and I'll come back and get it, you know I will."

Random circled the scene until she stood behind Pilcrowe, who felt a tugging on the ropes. Rob was still poised to shoot, but the Shovel was safely tucked under Random's arm as she worked, and nobody wanted to come close. Even Pilcrowe could feel it calling… no, no, now was not the time. She focused on all that was around her, the ropes falling away, the trembling barrel before her. At last she was free, and Random stood beside her as she rubbed the blood back into her arms.

"Nice work," she whispered.

"Any time," replied Random.

"It'll still take you time to come back!" snapped Rob. "Don't think you're invincible!"

"Yeah, I don't. Just thought maybe we could do a little experiment here. I know you're pretty fast with a gun, but scientifically speaking, how long does it take to hit someone with a shovel?"

"You wouldn't dare. You know what would happen!"

"Yeah. But you can always use more evidence. Shall we do an experiment about that?"

Pilcrowe looked down at Random. She wanted to say something clever, and found that she had nothing. For once in her life, she had no idea of what was about to happen in the next second.

She was no scientist, either, but it wasn't too different from being a detective. They were both all about finding out how things happened, after all. But she was sure that, scientifically speaking, a shovel could not stop a bullet.

She was less sure about the force required to attempt to twist it out of someone else's hands, or the effort it would take for the first person to turn it and slam it, blade down, into the floor, as cracks spread from its point.

As for the falling and the white light, she knew nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today in things nobody has ever said before: "I really wish I could edit my font on this site so I could use Comic Sans MS."
> 
> [WrimoRadio](http://www.wikiwrimo.org/wiki/WrimoRadio) was a podcast that ran from 2005 to 2008 and was superseded by NaNoVideo.


	16. End Paragraph

_And whether you're at 14,000 or 40,000 words, there's probably a part of you that's asking: Haven't I written enough already? - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

 

Crouched behind the bar of the Warm Onion, Vicki watched as a pair of dragon winged kitten electricians swatted their paws at an old radio. She'd found it in the cellar, after persuading the people in hiding there that they badly needed it. A few other characters crowded around, watching.

"Aren't you the one who fought that Editor?" said one.

"Yes, but I don't make a career of it." Already Vicki had learnt that her stunt had still made it over the air, but without Tildeworth's influence, the bar television set showed dead air. She was under no impressions that the same wasn't true of every screen in the Nexus and beyond. The electricians were doing their best, but nobody in the Nexus had listened to the radio in years, and this set lay gutted on the floor, wires pointing every which way as the electricians swatted them into place with tiny needle clawed paws. One of them mewed and breathed a little jet of flame in frustration.

"I wish I could help," said Emma. "But I only do things with video. I wouldn't know where to start with this."

"It's okay," said Vicki. "I'm useless with anything that doesn't have a lens."

"Why don't you just go and claw at a few more of those things?" said someone from the audience. "That worked better than this!"

"Quiet, t'lot whole bloody lot of you!" snapped Jeff. "Tha'll be talking different when t'radio's working!"

And then: "I am hiding under the bar because I can hide with my friends!"

Vicki looked up. From under the bar she saw a slobbering tongue set in a face fixed in a permanent doggy grin. A pair of tricoloured wings fanned out, and the beagle leapt into the air, to hover in front of the watching crowd. "Are you being mean to my friends?" he said. "You should not be mean to my friends! That way you can't be my friends, and I don't want to not be friends with you!"

"…Kevin?" Vicki exclaimed.

"Hello!" Kevin landed by her side, and gave her a big slobbery lick on the cheek. "These people were saying mean things to you, so I told them not to, because you are my friend!"

"Er… yes. Yes, you're my friend, sure!" Vicki shook her head and tried to smooth down her fur. "I mean, I've never met you before, but Tildeworth told me all about you… aren't you with the Pep Talker?"

"My food friend is gone," said Kevin, and his head and wings drooped. "The Editors came. I wanted to be friends with them too, but he said they weren't friends and I should run away. Now I am sad. But I have more friends here!"

"Sure. Hey, Kevin, aren't you a sound engineer?" She pointed a paw at the radio. "Could you fix this?"

"Yes!" Kevin said, "I will fix the sound box!"

He dove upon the radio, tail wagging, pawing and chewing. It didn't look like fixing to Vicki, more the opposite, but she sat back anyway, even when she wondered if she'd made the right decision. The electricians sat beside her, huddled under her wings, letting out little snorts of embers.

Nobody said anything. If Kevin was good at one thing, it was making people shut up. Nobody wanted to disappoint him.

The radio crackled. Vicki fluffed her wings.

"…listen, we have made mistakes. We have done so much. But perhaps in some ways we have not done enough."

"Cedilla?" Vicki exclaimed.

"I fixed it!" Kevin started prancing around the radio. "My voice friend is in the sound box!"

"But listen, everyone. We can do better than this, can't we? We made mistakes, didn't we? Well, can't we fix them? Isn't that the point of mistakes? Do we all walk into our novels every November expecting perfection? No! No we do not! We are _terrible!_ Our stories are _dreadful!_ We fall down plot holes, often literally! But that is not the point! What doesn't matter is how good the story is. What matters is that we are all there when the stories _need_ us.

"Listen… I don't know what is happening right now. I am trying to find out, but as I'm stuck in a… ahem… top secret location right now, which I am not at liberty to disclose thanks to very strict rules laid down by… well, myself. But you all have my phone number, don't you? So please call, or text, or try to get a message through with a couple of tin cans and a bit of string if you want! Please, please let me know you're there!"

Immediately, all around the Warm Onion's bar, phones came out of pockets, people texting quick messages to the station, all the people Tildeworth had met once or twice and given her number to, because basically, when it came to friendship, she was just a more intelligent version of Kevin. Even Emma was texting, quite a feat for someone with flippers.

"Hey, Kevin!" said Vicki. "Do you want to make more friends?"

Kevin's ears perked up as far as they would, his brow furrowing with intense interest. "More friends? More sound boxes?"

"Yeah, all the sound boxes! Come on, let's go!"

She touched the radio with her nose on one of the bits Kevin hadn't maimed. Turn on the radios, Tildeworth had said. And now, with the best sound engineer in the Nexus, they could do just that.

 

-

 

Pilcrowe was walking, walking through a white void.

There were no walls, no floor or ceiling. Her feet paced over a formless plane. Here there was no beginning or end.

Random walked by her side, still holding the Shovel. Pilcrowe was glad it was on the opposite side. She'd heard enough earlier, she didn't want to listen to any more. Not now, not ever. She only wanted to walk.

"What is this place?" Random said.

"I don't know," said Pilcrowe.

Dark shapes floated around them, like comets in an inverted night sky. They drifted and swayed in breezes that Pilcrowe could not feel, and there was no end to them.

She looked closer, and saw that it was a word, in perfect serif font, floating in mid-air by her side. _Murder,_ it said.

"They're all words."

She remembered the flash and the noise and the sharp smell of a gun going off. She remembered Random, leaping forward. She remembered an impossible deflection, and the Shovel coming to rest with its blade slammed into the floor. Then there had been the cracks, long snaking things winding over the floor, and from each one emanated a light that flooded her eyes.

And after all that she was walking, as if she had never done a single other thing all her life. Something was about to happen. Something was always about to happen. But it never did, not anymore. Nothing would happen, ever again. All was still, and silent, and the world was empty.

"That one's your name," said Random.

She looked where her client was pointing. There it was, _Pilcrowe_ , as if a page had been torn and scattered to the wind.

The invisible wheels inside her mind turned, and clicked.

"This is the text," she said.

"Text?"

"It has to exist somewhere. Stories are written down. It makes sense that there's such a thing as the text."

She touched the word. It resisted a tiny bit and then drifted away at her push, floating over and over until it bumped into another. They repelled like magnets and came to a standstill.

"You mean… we've discovered something nobody's ever seen before?" Random too was playing with the words, observing how they moved and interacted.

"That would seem to be the situation, yes."

"Cool! We've discovered something! But… wait, what's going on? I went back there and there was all this stuff with these Inner Editors all over the place and… Tildeworth!" The world was coming back to her now, just as it had to Pilcrowe, no doubt. "Oh crap, I tried turning her show on and there was nothing and I was going to tell you!"

Pilcrowe's hand slipped inside her pocket, feeling the cool, smooth shape of her phone. "I know," she said.

"Oh… crap, Sue. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be. We've got that." She pointed to the Shovel in Random's hand, its tip trailing against what, for lack of a better term, she thought of as the floor. "I don't think he can do as much harm without it."

"Yeah, I, um… " Random held it up, turning it over. Pilcrowe chanced a look at its pitted, black iron surface. "If you don't mind me asking, what's happening here? What's with all the Editors?"

Ah, a question. Pilcrowe liked questions. She could answer them, and she didn't have to think too hard about the messy things in life. Everything was so much easier when there were questions to answer.

"They're linked, yes," she said. "It was easy enough to unravel, once I'd spoken to him, and I had plenty of time to do just that." She wasn't even sure if she was talking to Random any more, or if she was just giving out a monologue to the void. "When you're tied up like you're a turkey with a major winter celebration looming over the horizon, you get a lot of chances to think. He's modified the Shovel. Don't know how he did it, but he's had the time. I'm guessing he made a deal with the Editors. Or maybe he threatened them. Fine line, between deals and threats."

"It's a threat," Random said, rubbing her fingers over the Shovel's handle. "I know. It… told me."

"I imagine so. He threatens the Editors, makes his deal with them. They swarm everything. The Nexus, the novels, everywhere. Stories grind to a halt. Nobody dares do a thing because nobody thinks they're good enough. There's no stories, ever again, because everyone's too afraid to even begin."

"But why?"

"Same reason everyone does things like that. Revenge. He was always one for flashy plots, was Rob the Rat. Led me in circles over that one murder. I'm guessing he thinks if nothing happened to him, then nothing ought to happen to everyone else. Suppose I understand his reasoning, even if I wish I didn't."

"I'm sorry. Really, I… I am. I… the last time I was there and I found the shovel, that's when I found out they were all gone. Neo and all of them…"

"I'm sorry too." How was she supposed to be genuine? She felt it, deep inside, but her voice was flat, her face blank. Tildeworth could have told, but Tildeworth was so good at those things, and she… no, no no, she was not going to think of Tildeworth now, she was _not…_ "I promised I'd find him."

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

They walked on, through the endless waiting words.

"Sue?"

"Yes?"

"You wouldn't happen to know how to get out of here?"

"No."

"I thought you were going to say that."

They walked on some more.

"You know, given the average human neurological make up, we've probably walked in a spiral now," said Random. "And my feet are hurting. Do you think we can sit down on this… whatever it is?"

It was like sitting on a very smooth floor, so smooth that you could barely feel it. It was neither hot, not cold. It was simply there. They sat cross legged, side by side, the Shovel laid out by Random's feet. It wasn't too close, not so close it could listen in to all her regret and fears, and yet… "How did you touch it?" Pilcrowe said.

"I don't know. The first time I tried, that was when… that was when it talked. But the second time, I don't know. I think Neo wouldn't have wanted me to just stop, you know? But at the same time, even if it weren't for him, I think it's a stupid idea to do nothing when you could do something. Er. Unless it's got anything to do with unleashing murderous gardening equipment all over the place. Then you probably should do nothing instead. But not if you can do something good, I mean."

"I think I grasped that, yes."

"I mean, what's different to you and him is you don't do those things, yeah?"

"I might have considered it, but only as a passing thought."

"Close enough."

There was silence for a little while longer, as Pilcrowe asked herself why she was allowed to talk to anyone, ever.

"Look, I er… I'm sorry about Tildeworth. She was so nice, and…"

"She ran. She might still be somewhere."

"I hope so." Random hugged her knees.

 _I don't like hoping,_ Pilcrowe thought. Perhaps it would be better to be in Random's shoes, knowing what had happened, but she wasn't about to say it. That was what tact was meant to be, wasn't it?

But she could feel the phone by her side, and she pulled it out, gazing at the glossy black screen. "She called. Called while I was having that chat up there with Rob. Never got to pick up, because it's rude to do that when you're in the middle of a conversation with someone you haven't seen in years. It's also a bit hard to answer the phone when you're tied up. But I know it was her. Nobody else rings that long. And she left me a message."

Her long fingers slid open the screen, and hovered over the voicemail icon. It must have been very important. But that was just like her, wasn't it? Everything was very important, to Tildeworth.

"If you need some space, I can go away." Random got to her feet, and picked up the Shovel. "I mean, if you wanted to listen. Er, I don't know where there is to go, but I could try and leave you alone?"

Pilcrowe's finger hovered over the icon. She looked up, and Random's back was turned.

"Wait!" she said.

Random looked back.

"Don't go. Please."

Random, for all the love of Chris Baty himself, didn't ask questions.

"It's okay," Pilcrowe said, when the message was all over. "I knew what she'd say."

"It's not weasels, you know," said Random.

"What?"

"That coffee thing. They're not weasels. They're civets."

"Aren't those the same thing?"

"No! They're completely different branches of Carnivora! Also, ew. Also, um. Er."

"It's okay," said Pilcrowe. "She shouldn't have been there. She should have gone to sleep. But she wouldn't ever miss a show, not for anything."

She'd promised herself she wouldn't think of Tildeworth. It was so much easier not to. Caring hurt. But she couldn't not care, not now. Not after it all came back in one crashing heap in her head, breaking down the barriers, shattering the fragile wheels of thought that turned, day and night, in search of answers. There were no answers now. The case was closed, and it had gone on without her.

She shut it away, when Rob showed her the live broadcast, pretended it was all a game, that it wasn't Tildeworth on screen, not really. All so he wouldn't see, because she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing. But now, there was nobody but Random, and… and it didn't matter if she saw. Her head was in her hands, her glasses pushed up over her forehead, her thick black hair cascading over her face and her long fingers rubbing her eyes.

"I wasn't even there," she said. "I was too busy being clever!"

It was her Cedilla on screen, nobody else, and she had been terrified, determined but so very afraid, so very tired. How could she not feel anything anymore? She hadn't been there for her. She hadn't even been there for Random.

Her fingers were wet. She ignored them. Cedilla might be out there now, but equally, she might not, and there was nothing Pilcrowe could do to deduce things either way. Even the absolute certainty of the worst possible outcome, such as had been imparted to Random, had to be better than this.

What would happen if she were to touch the Shovel? She opened her eyes, looked down at the innocuous dark shape by her clie- no, by Random's feet. She wasn't her client any more, she'd stopped being that the moment she found out. What would it tell her? What would it see in her?

But Random knew what she was doing, and Pilcrowe immediately felt a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back. "No. It's not going to help. It never touched her."

"Then make it stop!"

"Uh… I don't know if I can?"

"Then…" Pilcrowe was sitting in a crouch, her hands in fists, nails digging into her palms, her long brown coat draped in a heap behind her. "Talk to me, then!"

"What about?"

"Anything! I don't care! Tell me about… tell me about that friend of yours, that one I was supposed to find. I never knew anything about him. Or something else if you don't want to talk about him! Just talk about something!"

"Neo?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"I need something to listen to."

"Okay, I'll try." Random sat back down, taking up her cross legged position again, and scooting the Shovel a little further away. "There's so much. You ever had a friend you really looked up to? Someone you wanted to be just like? That was him. Neither of us had been around for really long. He was so cool, and funny, and loud. I think a lot of people thought that was annoying. Not sure if you'd ever have liked him. Actually, you'd probably have ended up shouting at one another… uh, that's not much help, is it?"

"No," said Pilcrowe, "please, keep going."

"He was my best friend, that was why we ended up moving in together. We always said when we'd find a novel, we'd go in together. Well, I guess we did that. Hhe was like… like my brother or something. I mean, I've never been written with a brother, but I guess that's how it felt to have one. And we didn't think it mattered so much that we weren't written to be related. I mean, that's not so important, is it?

"What was so great about him was that didn't matter what happened to him. He'd always come back, smiling or laughing, and he'd have another go. Nothing stopped him. Nothing, except… well, you know.

"This was going to be our first NaNo and we knew there had to be a story for us somewhere. There were people off at Camp in July, and meanwhile we were trying to get a novel for November, because we wanted something really special. Anyway, I went in the first few thinking 'this is great, we're going to get a story together,' and we didn't. I got really discouraged, started thinking maybe it was better to not keep going, but I did, because well, that was what he'd do.

"I didn't know how he did it, how he kept smiling and throwing himself in every day. So I asked him how he never let anything get to him, when every day he had to to go back in there and face another rejection slip.

So he said to me… he said it was because of me. Because he was scared, and he didn't think it was worth going again, and he was shouting and laughing and telling stupid jokes just to keep on going. But he did, anyway, because he'd look at me, and he'd think, 'well, she keeps on going. And when November comes, she'll get into a novel and she'll keep on going until she hits the finish line and I don't want to disappoint her.'

"After that, I don't know what he'd have made of me walking out and not finishing that novel. But I think he'd have understood."

"Yes," Pilcrowe said. If truth be told then yes, Neo would probably have annoyed her so much she'd have personally hit herself over the head with the Shovel rather than be in a room with him. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that the flood of thoughts had subsided. The guilt was still there, the fear and the pain, but it was quieter now, no longer crashing over her thoughts. It would be a long time before it went away, but… well, she had all the time in the world now.

No, she wasn't going to think of that. There would be a way out. One of them was bound to find it. It was, as always, a matter of letting the pieces fall into place.

"Do you mind if I talk too?" she said. "About Cedilla. I suppose you've heard the story so many times before… Chris Baty knows she never shut… shuts up about me."

"Will it help?"

"Can't see how it's going to hurt."

"Go on, then. I've never heard it from your side."

 _Nobody has,_ Pilcrowe thought. _But someone might as well._ "You know how I left that novel," she said. "Though I suppose it's this novel now. Well now, I told you all about that. I left, and came back to the Nexus.

"You have to understand, it had been a long time. I'm hardly one of the ninety nine crowd, but when they wrote my novel, the Nexus was small. Not a city, not like you see it now. Just a town, really. Used to crash and freeze over a whole lot too, every November, when everyone tried to start at once and it couldn't handle the pressure. Cedilla probably talked about that. She's not been around as long as me, but she's lived through a few crashes herself.

When I came back, walked into a city. I thought I was going home, turns out I couldn't. So I went to Foreshadow City instead. Somewhere that was like what I lost.

"That was where I started my agency. I wasn't in a story any more, and I didn't know if I ever wanted to be, and to tell you the truth, I still don't know. But I thought, maybe there's things in the Nexus need looking into, and the Nexus needs someone to do it. Could sit at my desk, listen to the rain, compose monologues in my head for when someone walked in, you know the sort."

"Yeah, like with me."

"Yes. The first night I was setting up shop and I didn't have much to do. But there was this old radio in the back room, so I turned it on. And there was Cedilla, talking away."

"Tildeworth did radio?"

"You didn't know... Of course, the young ones never do. Can't say I blame you; she doesn't talk about it these days. Not because of any bad experiences, don't go thinking of that. She loved that old show of hers. Wrimo Radio, it was called. Every night, she'd come on and talk about anything, everything. Not so different to today. You could hear it every time she spoke, that little station was her life. And then…

Well, when I tuned in that night, it was her last show. The station was closing down. They were moving on to television, so she wasn't in any danger. Couldn't have been, not with her being the Personification of Communications, she'd never really go away. Sometimes you can hear someone's life in a voice, and it wasn't hard there.

"So I sat there and I listened to her talk about it, and I… thought. I think a lot. Thinking is an important part of being a detective. But I was thinking about things that didn't have anything to do with finding out who committed the murder.

"The day after I brought in a television set. Nothing special, just an old black and white thing. I had to keep the look going. She always moved funny in those days, and I don't mean the picture. It was like she wasn't used to her body or something.

"I kept watching. Didn't think anything of it. She was just another lost person, and when you look deep down, everyone's lost.

"A few weeks after, I thought I should get myself out of Foreshadow City. Didn't want to. But there was all this talk about this new place that had just opened, the Warm Onion, you know the one. I thought at the very least, I could drum up a little business if I sat in the corner and drank to keep up the look. She was there, at the bar. She looked at me, just once. I knew it was her. Nobody else would wear shirts like that. They look bad enough in black and white, never mind seeing them in full colour like that. Then she had her back to me, and she was talking to her friend, that Vicki Smith… you know, the cat? I didn't know what they were saying, only it sounded urgent.

"Then she gets up off the bar stool, all slowly, like she doesn't have a clue what she's doing, and turns around, and next thing I know, she's walking up to me, and I remember what she said when she reached my table. 'I love you,' she said, 'and by that I mean hello.'

"You're looking at me with your eyes doing that thing now. That thing where they look like they're going to fall out of your face. Don't do that, I'm not clearing up the mess. I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same. I know she makes friends with everyone in the immediate radius, but that's not the point. I'm not saying there wasn't something on my side of things. But I'm also not saying there was anything else. Only that I'd heard her, and seen her, and thought that person, that's someone I might have something in common with. But for her to do that? Couldn't have been real.

"I didn't know Cedilla, in those days. Not as a person, anyway, just as someone on the TV. I thought it was a wind-up. I talked anyway - didn't want to storm out just like that - and acted like it was the most normal thing in the world, but I didn't say anything about what I was thinking. I went back to Foreshadow City and I turned the television back on.

"And there she was, talking about how she'd had this conversation with the most fascinating person she'd ever met, and I thought…

"Well, if truth be told, I thought it was an even bigger wind up. But it turns out that when Cedilla Tildeworth walks up to you and says she loves you, she's being more honest than she has been in her life. And she's always been a damn honest type.

"Took me a long time, but I decided to trust her. And I suppose it worked. Look, if there's one thing I've learnt it's that no matter what stories say, falling in love doesn't solve all your problems forever. But I'd never have traded her for anything. Never deserved someone like Cedilla, but she thought I did."

"I thought she was exaggerating. No wonder you thought she was having you on."

Pilcrowe shrugged. "It's a broadcaster thing. Best not to ask."

But Random wasn't looking at her any more. Instead, she seemed focused on a point just behind Pilcrowe's head, "Uh, Sue, the words…"

"What about them?"

"I think you should look."

The words, which before had drifted aimlessly in meaningless currents, now clustered around her like a cloud of birds drawn by her voice. "They didn't do that for you."

She touched one of them, took it in her hands. It didn't resist. It felt near weightless in her palm, held only by the force of her loose grip, the serifs pressing gently into her skin.

She plucked another word from my butt, and held it close. Just as before, it felt like pressing magnets together, but this time they didn't repel, and when she let go, they hovered together as one.

"This is how we get out!" Pilcrowe spun in place, her arms outstretched, her coat billowing and swirling around her, and gestured toward the floating phrase. "We write the novel!"

"Yes!"

"There were only five thousand words left," Pilcrowe said, turning back and studying the cloud for the next word. "I can put together five thousand of these. I know everything that was going to happen, I only have to reveal that Rob did it. And after that… after that I admit I don't know what comes next, but I'll figure that out later." She slotted another word in, and another.

For years, something had been about to happen. And now, it would.


	17. The Shovelbearer

_Once you've diagnosed yourself with this affliction, don't fight it. Embrace it. After all, you're a novelist, and we novelists have to uphold our longstanding reputation as a crazy bunch. - No Plot? No Problem!_

 

"And the point is… the point is that I will talk all night and all of the next morning if I have to! I will, you know. I have coffee. I don't even like coffee. But I have it!

"If you can hear me, pass on the words. If you are in a novel, keep going. If you are in the Nexus, and there is an Editor close by, and statistically speaking I am sorry to say that this is probably the case from what I have heard on my phone… on the occasion I'm actually able to read these texts before the next one comes in, but don't feel bad because I love to hear from you and I know you're all trying to help, and anyway we all have infinite battery life anyway unless the plot gets in the way, so don't worry about that. Also that tapping noise you hear in the background is me updating the blog. I didn't want to neglect the rest of my duties, and you all know I'm not just a voice, right? Oh dear, people, you should never do radio, by the way. People will _never_ stop arguing about what you look like, it's _dreadful._ It was quite a relief when I finally settled upon a form after going into television, but that's another story. Don't mind the typing. My hands are free, and I wouldn't be much of a Personification Of Communications if I couldn't talk and type at the same time! No, I would not.

"Anyway. I thought that I might test a little something out. If there are any of those statistically likely Editors listening, I'd like to give you all a big warm hello! Now stick with me, my story gets better. What do you think of my voice? We got on so well when we met, remember that little thing with the Comic Sans? Wasn't that funny? I'd forgotten I could do that! It's been so long since I tried something like that, so I thought I'd have a little go at some more. Let's call it a bonding experience, hmm?

"Now let's see what I can do. _I know I'm quite good at italics!_ **_What do you think of a little extra bold added on to that?_** Ooh, that tickles! **_How about with underline?_** Oh, this is so much fun! It's like a nice party, isn't it? A nice party with friends, and things we thought we had lost but perhaps had not? **_AREN'T THOSE THE BEST SORT OF PARTIES?_** "

 

-

 

When it all came down to the end, writing was nothing more than a case of putting one word in front of the other.

Pilcrowe knew all about characters taking over. She'd done so more than a few times herself. The story tugged one way, the characters pulled in the opposite direction, and more often than not the characters would win. But nobody had ever gone in, word by word, and taken the story by the hands

She wrote on. It couldn't be hard, could it? All she had to do was keep putting words together. From the cloud came order and the story shaped itself as she pieced together her adventures.

But was that line of dialogue something she would say?

And endings were hard, weren't they? That was why so few stories ever won. It was easy to begin, but not so easy to finish. It took a very, very good writer indeed to do a proper ending.

And it had been so long, hadn't it? She had to do this story justice, to give it the end that it deserved, not something thrown together as a means to an end.

There was a cold sensation at the back of her neck…

"Sue!"

She whirled around. Random was standing with her back to her, the Shovel pointed outward, pacing back and forth in a semicircle. And beyond…

They were faint, but they could go anywhere to whisper their hindering words. They were shimmering forms, visible only as a disjointed boundary between the background text and their selves, come to feed on the fat of the story being written before them.

"Hypothesis," said Random. "These guys are terrified of the Travelling Shovel of Death. Go on!" She thrust it, and the nearest forms retreated from the blade. "Yeah! You don't like that, do you? Sue, get moving!"

Pilcrowe turned back to the words, slotting them all together with a speed she'd never imagined she was capable of. It didn't matter what she wrote. It didn't have to be good. It didn't have to make sense. It just had to exist.

The words were a flurry around her as she forged on, ignoring the pain and the guilt and the grammatical nonsense. All around her Random thrust the Shovel, yelling dramatic lines at the Editors that threatened to feast upon her.

It wasn't all that bad. It wasn't good, either. It certainly wasn't perfect. But it worked. It was like that beautiful moment when a case came together. The Editors had no power! This story meant something!

But she was flagging, and Random's weaves and thrusts were a touch less dramatic. But it didn't matter. She had a thousand words left. Five hundred… one hundred…

Her hands closed on a THE and an END, and placed them together.

She sank to her knees, and stared at the quite literal wall of text in front of her.

The Editors had vanished, driven off by the Shovel and a completed novel. There was nothing for them to feed on now. But Pilcrowe and Random were not alone.

She'd felt this presence before, long ago. You didn't see it, but you knew it was there. You could feel it, close by, something old and vast and far beyond your understanding, and also rather fond of cupcakes.

There was a tingling on her tongue, a flavour that was also a colour.

It tasted an awful lot like purple.

 

-

 

"And now, a word from out sponsors. Who don't actually exist, because of course we are all fictional characters and as such do not have an economy, but that won't stop us. Good luck puzzling that one out!"

A few lights dimmed, and Tildeworth stood up as the prerecorded messages took over. She could definitely use a bit more coffee.

But first she checked her laptop, still sitting open on the desk in front of her. It still displayed her latest blog post, still racking up the comments. She should reply to them, or drop in a message to say she was still here. But the icon tray was flashing, and it hadn't been doing that a few minutes ago.

She clicked it, and steadied herself against the desk. Her limbs were heavy. She swung back and forth, one moment exhausted, the next awake, one moment calm and one moment shaking from the effects of enough coffee to set a blue whale flapping off into the sky… or to make her think of that metaphor, come to think of it.

There was a signal.

This was going to take time. Good thing for the imaginary sponsors, then. With the halo swinging from the Viking helmet still perched on to of her head, she closed the laptop, tucked it under her arm, and stepped out of the booth.

She left her phone behind, so she didn't hear the whine as it made sounds that it should never have been capable of, but as it soon veered off the limits of human hearing it didn't really matter in the end.

 

-

 

"Did you feel that?" said Pilcrowe.

"I don't know, not my novel! What did it taste like?"

"Purple. Definitely purple."

"I did hear a rumour they were going to open validation early this year but… what, purple? You won?"

"Evidently I did."

"You won! Sue, you won!" Random placed the Shovel aside and snatched Pilcrowe around the waist, leaving her arms flailing as they tried to remember how to respond to a hug.

"No!" she protested. "No hugs! I don't do hugs!"

"But you won! Er. Now what?"

"Good question, and the reason I wasn't going to celebrate too early," Pilcrowe said, disentangling herself from Random's grasp. The other reason, though she didn't say it, was that she didn't know how she was supposed to feel. This was the moment she felt she had been cheated of all her life, and yet…

"Random, your chest is flashing. It's very distracting. Stop it."

"I didn't mean to - wait, what's this?" Random lifted up the shovel detector from her chest, where its screen had been flashing. The light was pale pink, vivid against her white coat and clashing awfully with her red hair. "I didn't program it to be pink- hey! What are you doing?" She tapped frantically at the screen, while, not having any idea what was going on, Pilcrowe left her to it. She'd just finished a novel. She could afford to let other people do the work for a while.

The detector was shaking in Random's hands as if it had a mind of its own, and Pilcrowe was just starting to wonder if, perhaps, she should do something to help after all, when Random pointed it at a blank space, well away from her or the text wall.

_Ding._

"Okay," Random said. "I'm pretty sure it isn't supposed to do portals."

There was indeed a portal before them now, the same pink as the light that had shone from the detector's screen. It hovered in mid-air at just the right height to step through, its sides shimmering, its centre vibrant bands of pink and white. Pilcrowe circled it and it vanished, as she looked at it from behind. On walking back to the start again, it reappeared in front of her.

Random was already investigating, pushing a clumped portion of her lab coat through. It came back unharmed. "Nothing else to do around here," she said. "You coming through?"

She vanished into the portal, and Pilcrowe, out of a lack of anything better to do, followed. There was a flash of bright light, and a cool breeze on her skin, not the cold dread of an Editor's touch, but the refreshing sensation of a fan on a hot day.

And then, darkness. No, not darkness… less light than before, but still enough to see by. Lights illuminating surfaces, tables and chairs, covered with the dust of ages. A speaker in the ceiling, pumping out a long and rambling commercial for packaging materials. And in front of her…

Tildeworth was standing there, her Tildeworth, just as she was when she'd fled the studio… no, not quite. But, then again, there was probably a very good explanation for the breastplate. Or the Viking helmet, with a gleaming halo hanging at an angle from one of the horns. Or the giant pencil propped up by her side. The rest, she wasn't so sure about. She took a step forward, her whole body trembling. "Ce… Cedilla?"

"Sue? What's wrong?"

"I am fairly sure," she said, with all the certainty that she could muster, "that you are not usually luminescent."

"This?" Tildeworth lifted her hand, outlined with the faintest of yellow lights. "Oh, this! Do you… do you like it? I think it might be my second wind. I don't know if you're supposed to be able to see it, but-"

She didn't have time to finish. Pilcrowe snatched her up in a hug, resting her chin on the shorter woman's head, nestled between the horns on her helmet. Her hands stroked her cheeks, ran through her hair and twisted their fingers around the strands. Tildeworth did likewise, digging into Pilcrowe's thick black hair, leaving little kisses all around her neck and collarbone. Pilcrowe let the seconds drag out, looking away only to give Random, who was standing to one side, a _don't you dare say anything clever about this_ sort of look. Then she closed her eyes, let herself breathe deeply, let herself relax after realising, for the first time tonight, how tense she had been.

She didn't want to move. She wanted to stand here with Tildeworth stroking her hair all day, and forget about the tiredness and the Editors and the Shovel and everything else. But circumstances got in the way, and Tildeworth stepped back. "I'm glad you like it," she said.

"It's different. Like a lot of other things about you."

Random, meanwhile, had taken to exploring the room. "Not to put a damper on the reunion," she said, "but what is this place, and why does it want me to buy packing peanuts?"

"Wrimo Radio," said Pilcrowe.

It was a guess. But she was very good at making guesses.

They were a break room. Chairs and tables scattered around, all worn upholstery and coffee stains, the odd vending machine.

"Yeeesss," said Tildeworth. "Look, I'd say if anyone asks, you were never here, but I also think all of the Nexus knows I'm here now if the texts I keep getting are anything to go by. But if anyone asks, you were still never here, okay? This is… not something that the Editors need to know about. At least they don't know where it is. Look, I need to make this quick, okay? Love to stay, but the ad's about to end, and when it does I'm needed back up there. I'll be back but… wait up on me, okay? I need to keep on talking."

"But-" Pilcrowe said.

"I'm sorry." Tildeworth picked up the laptop, which had been on the table alongside the now faded portal, and tucked it under her arms before turning to go. "Only that… I've never been more sincere when I say I'll explain later."

 

-

 

"And on line one, we have Tim! Welcome to the show, Tim. Well, this isn't really line one, it's just my phone, and there's only the one line anyway, but nevertheless, you made it in! Welcome!

"Thankyou," said the unseen Tim.

"Shall we begin?"

"Very well. According to the Baty Revisionist Rules, the challenger moves first. Your move."

"Oxford Circus."

"Turnpike Lane."

"Ooh, daring… Piccadilly Circus."

Random didn't know a lot of things, so why Tildeworth and her latest caller were now shouting out tube stations and referring to arcane and convoluted rule sets she did not know, but it wasn't a big piece of the puzzle so she let it slide.

She was sitting in the break room after brushing away the worst of the dust from the old seats that wrapped around the wall. A coffee would be nice about now, but she wasn't going to take her chances with the vending machine. The Travelling Shovel of Death sat propped up by th seat next to her. It hadn't been a bother so far.

"I think this is starting to make sense." Pilcrowe said.

"Good, that makes one of us," said Random.

"Cedilla could never stand to throw anything away that might be useful," said Pilcrowe. She was smiling. The effect was a little disturbing, but Random supposed it was only down to a lack of experience. "It would seem that such hoarding behaviour extends to objects such as radio stations. Even after all these years, she still surprises me."

She got out of her seat as she spoke, pacing up and down the break room.

"I thought you said Wrimo Radio was closed down?"

"It was," said Pilcrowe, "but what did I just say? What if there was some way for her to keep this building safe until further use, or a copy of it, or to… create an unauthorised backup? Hmm. I suppose I should be angry at her for that, but I'm too impressed. Now the question of where we are outside of the station, that will have to wait a little longer."

"Mornington Crescent!" exclaimed Tildeworth's voice.

"That, on the other hand," said Pilcrowe, "I have no explanation for whatsoever."

"Thank you Tim, thank you very much. I hope you all enjoyed that," Tildeworth went on. "I hope, especially, that our Editor friends enjoyed that. I know how much you love puzzling out things that make no sense! That should keep you occupied for a while. I really, really hope you have lots and lots of fun!

"But listeners, perhaps you'd like a little variety in your lives? You can't just listen to me talk, much as I'm sure you'd love to hear my voice all day. Or is it night? I believe it may be night. I've been in here a while, now. If anyone could see fit to enlighten me, please do. The thing about recording booths is that they don't have windows. Well, okay, they do. I'm looking at a rather large one right now, but it doesn't open up onto the sky. I can't see what time it is by looking out onto the corridor outside. Well, I could if there was a clock there, but there isn't one, so that's that out, then.

"Anyway, to break up the monotony, you'd like a little music? I know just the thing."

And with that, Tildeworth's voice faded away to be replaced with the opening notes of the Birdie Song.

"And I have nothing on this," said Pilcrowe.

"To be honest," said Random, "I'd be worried if you did."

But now there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and Tildeworth walked back in, still carrying her assortment of oddities. "Hello," she said. "Okay, now I have a little time to myself, how would you like to go on an epic quest to save all of NaNoWriMo?"

"I suspect," said Pilcrowe, "that no matter what we say, we are going to do it. Thankfully I don't mind when it's you doing the asking."

"I kind of don't mind whoever's asking," said Random. Her fingers curled around the Travelling Shovel of Death's handle. "I'm in."

"Good," said Tildeworth, giant pencil in her hands like some ancient guardian of literature, which in some respects was an entirely accurate description. "Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once. Well, okay, I'll repeat stuff if you need me to. I just wanted to say that."

"Okay, bring it," said Random.

Tildeworth's brow furrowed. "What, exactly, is going on here?"

"I kind of thought you knew," said Random.

"Goodness, no," Tildeworth said. "I know that the Nexus is overrun by a swarm of Inner Editors, and that they may be infiltrating the library to spread to the greater novelscape. I also know that you two have been tracing the Travelling Shovel of Death, and that I managed to…" at this point she lapsed into words that Random didn't understand, before continuing… "so it was quite simple to create a portal between here and there to ascertain your location. I also know that you're holding the Travelling Shovel of Death and I have no idea how you're pulling that off. I'm not quite certain how they all link together. I'm just a reporter. What do I know about _facts?_ "

"It transpires," said Pilcrowe, "that my former co-star has modified the Shovel so that it is capable of actually killing its victims in such a way that they do not come back - that is to say, that they are dead dead, that is to say that they are not still here. He is using the Shovel in turn to command the Inner Editors so as to get revenge over the fact that his… that is to say, our… novel was left unfinished."

There was a long pause, as Tildeworth processed the news. In the background, over the ceiling mounted speakers, the Birdie Song segued into the Macarena.

At last, Tildeworth spoke. "What an _utter arse!_ "

Random, who was at least well acquainted with Tildeworth's televised work if not all of her personal life (those parts of it that didn't end up broadcast to anyone who might happen to tune in, that is), had the strange feeling that she had just witnessed the patented Cedilla D. Tildeworth equivalent of an f-bomb.

"Well," Tildeworth said, her fingers drumming on the oversized pencil, "it seems, then, that it is obvious what we have to do."

"What?" said Random.

Tildeworth stood firm. "We must destroy the Travelling Shovel of Death."

"What?" Random's hands closed in around the black iron handle. "But I… look, I'm not attached to it or anything. It did kill a lot of people. And one of them was my best friend. But I had to fight off Editors and this thing worked!"

"Of course it works," said Tildeworth, "And that is exactly why you have to destroy it."

"I'm waiting," said Pilcrowe.

"Well for starters, because you don't need it," said Tildeworth. "I'm doing quite a good job on my own. You see, what I found out was that they're scared of me!"

"Because, no doubt, of that ridiculous get-up," said Pilcrowe.

"Exactly! Editors are a bit of a contradiction, you see. They hate this sort of nonsense." Tildeworth tapped the halo hanging from the helmet's horn. "They can't help go after you like this, because all they want is to go around talking about how ridiculous you look, and how that pencil is a terrible choice of a weapon, and how Vikings never even had horns on their helmets. As if anyone cared." She let out a derisive snort. "But that's the thing! If you believe in yourself and you tell them to… well, to arse off, then they will. An Editor's no match for someone who's happy with themselves. Have you heard what I can do with my voice? They hate it! I can do this or _this_ , or if I want to bring it up further I can even do **_this_** and **_this!_** And if I really, really want to drive them nuts, we're talking really, severely round the bend here, on those really rare and special occasions, I cAn Do SoMeThInG lIkE tHiS. But not too much. It hurts my throat.

"But they're still attacking, and that was what I didn't understand. If we fight back, if we all work together and stand up to them, we can see them all off. And they know that! So I was very confused, because if it was possible for them to invade like this, then why don't they do it every year? You've just given me the answer. They're attacking because if that thing gets to them, then they're worse off than what happens if we get to them. They're _scared._ "

"Great, so we can invite them to a support group," said Random, holding up the Shovel. "So what about this? We destroy it, they go away, because suddenly we're the scary ones instead of it?"

"Yes. I… I would not normally recommend such an action. But I… am not entirely sure I am the person I was this morning…"

"You are giving off light," pointed out Pilcrowe. "Oh, for Chris Baty's sake, Cedilla, I'll be the one to judge that! What you're saying makes perfect sense! I don't care if you're… if you did what I suspect you did. The thing you keep telling people not to do. You saved us and you're still saving us, so shut up!"

Tildeworth closed her eyes, her chin resting on her chest. "Dearest Susan," she said, "I do not deserve you, have I ever told you that?"

"That's strange," said Pilcrowe, hands in her deep pockets, "I may have said something earlier about myself not deserving you."

The Macarena died away into silence, and Agadoo started up in its place.

"Not to interrupt the touching, if not musically dissonant scene here," said Random, "but how do you destroy the Traveling Shovel of Death? Are we talking a sort of lob it into a volcano set up here?"

"Oh goodness, no! Lava wouldn't do it," Tildeworth said. "It would just come back. It is a _Traveling_ Shovel of Death after all. It was forged to survive. No, you need to counter it with its own energies, its own self, take it back to where it began. Somewhere relating to a Personification. Now you see, it was Marni Woon, Keeper of the Dares, who forged the Shovel, long ago. But she's not here now. And while I'm sure she would offer to help if she were, we can't ask, and taking any action on her behalf would be _rude._ And as terrible as he… is… I couldn't do anything with Brevewin without at least giving him a fair warning.

"How about the November Gardens?" said Pilcrowe.

"Oh no, that wouldn't do," said Tildeworth. "For one, I'm not interesting in vandalising our community's beautiful public spaces. For the other, we are in the November Gardens right now. Hmm, perhaps I should have told you that, but I supposed you'd find out eventually. There aren't many places around here you can hide a radio station that aren't parklands with potentially infinite interior space. No, that would simply never do. There is only one place you can destroy the Shovel that I have any right to tell you to go, and I think you know where it is already."

"No," said Pilcrowe. "You can't. You'll-"

"I will not," said Tildeworth, standing firm with the giant pencil gripped in her hands. "I made a backup, do you remember? There's more to me than the television station. I'm here, At least, I am sure I will be fine. Within a reasonable margin of error, I am sure I will be fine. But Sue. If I wasn't going to be, I'd still want you to go, don't you see? I can't have you staying here. Eventually those things are going to get in the garden, and when they do, they'll silence me. But you need to go. And you need to go now."

"But why?" said Pilcrowe.

"Because Agadoo is going to finish in a minute, and after that I'm out of annoying party songs," said Tildeworth. "What do you expect me to do, broadcast dead air? What kind of a professional do you think I am?"

When Tildeworth pushed the giant pencil into Pilcrowe's arms, Pilcrowe didn't protest. "You'll need something to help you," Tildeworth said. "Just remember what I said."

"Be the main character," Random said. "But, maybe I should keep myself down out there?" she said. "I mean, last time I pretended to be an accountant, and that sort of worked."

"Nonsense, you're not an accountant!" said Tildeworth. "Now here you go." She lifted the plastic Viking helmet, halo and all, from her head, and placed it on top of Random's curls. "That should do for you. Just do what you said there."

"I didn't come up with it," said Random. "My friend did."

"Then they were someone you ought to listen to," said Tildeworth. Without her assortment of NaNoWriMo paraphernalia, except for the pangolin scale breastplate, she looked a lot smaller all of a sudden.

"Always do," Random said.

She let Tildeworth and Pilcrowe have their own goodbyes to themselves, waiting outside of the break room for Pilcrowe to join her. She could feel the halo sway with every movement of her head, and the Shovel...

The Shovel was always there, in the back of her mind. She didn't usually listen, because after a while the whispered promises of dark and immense power over all who had wronged her became a bit same-y. But now there was a different tone, a sort of urgency in the Shovel's wordless whisperings, as if it were aware of its oncoming fate. If Random didn't know better, she might have said that the Travelling Shovel of Death, for the first time in its existence, was afraid.

She lifted it so that the handle was at eye level.

"Can it, Precious."


	18. Fifty Thousand Words of Drivel

_Call in favors to have as much noveling time as possible in the home stretch. - No Plot? No Problem!_

Vicki Smith sat on a tower roof, feeling the wind run through her fur and feathers as she looked down over the scene below. She couldn't hear anything from up here, but she could see people milling about the square. They were carrying signs, including a decent mix of the good old ones - plenty of Down With This Sort Of Things and Careful Nows, for a start, and the odd [citation needed], but some others that she hadn't seen before, including one proclaiming that Things Are Pretty Great, Actually.

Maybe they were. Behind her, Kevin was gnawing at the duo's latest project. She'd been unable to stop him scratching at Brevewin's front door, but what she thought was simple distress for the loss of his best friend and giver of food turned out to conceal a simple plan. With the Pep Talker's audio equipment, they could hook up a running radio to a rack of speakers and broadcast Tildeworth's words across the whole of the Nexus.

On the other hand, she wasn't sure she could bring herself to be happy. She was, after all, a fictional character, and every fictional character knows that the time when things are pretty great comes before the point at which they suddenly stop being so. She began to pace up and down, fanning her wings in the breeze and silently urging the beagle to hurry up.

"AWWWWOOOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Vicki's ears flattened. and a cold, bony hand snatched her by the neck, lifting her off the ground and holding her at arm's length, where her flailing claws and flapping wings could do no damage. Kevin was likewise trapped, still baying, until the Inner Editor shook him into silence. "You again!" snapped the Editor, steely eyes fixed on Vicki's. "Shouldn't you be leaving that to the people who know what they are doing? Because no offence, but I highly doubt a couple of household pets could set up a _proper_ sound system."

Vicki tried to speak, to say that they had done perfectly well with fixing radios so far, and incidentally Kevin was actually an audio equipment genius once you got past the chewing, but nothing came out but a strangled mew. The Editor's hand was so cold, and it gripped her throat...

"Look at you," the Editor went on. "Look how pathetic you both are. Thinking you made sense, thinking people would really care about you! Just a pair of talentless hacks who let themselves be fooled into thinking they could do something worthwhile! Why don't you leave stories to the people who know how to tell them?"

Her thin lips split into a terrible smile... no, Vicki thought, no, that was not a smile, no smile looked like that, no smile exposed such perfect white teeth under thin lips, and she knew that this was the Editor who had attacked the studio, taking a delicious delight in tormenting the dare who had caused her so much trouble. She knew this beyond a doubt, as the Editor's consciousness filtered into her own, a grey, heavy blanket over her own thoughts. Her wings and paws hung limp, only her tail managing a few lethargic sways. Kevin wasn't baying any more. The smile was all she could see.

"You don't have a novel," hissed the Editor through those terrible, perfect teeth. "There's no story here. All you and your little friends have is words, words that did not even have the decency to be good words! Only a pile of adverbs and dreadful streams of consciousness, nonsense thrown in for the sake of a wordcount. You should be ashamed of yourself, you filthy little beast! Pushing out crap every November and daring to think you had a novel in your dirty little paws! You disgust me!"

She was disgusted, too. There was nothing else Vicki could feel. That was how Inner Editors worked. They slipped into the cracks at the back of your mind. They found the seeds of dread, all the little doubts you had every day, and they planted and tended them, smothering everything else with their wild growth... and that, too, was a dreadful metaphor.

"Thinking you could make something of yourself, because of an overrated stunt! Let me tell you a little secret, you dreadful little moggie. If you were in a _real_ story, you wouldn't need your precious little… NaNoWriMo." She spat out the acronym with such hate that Vicki could not help but loathe it herself. "Real stories are written all year around. Real stories don't need credulous little crutches to help them along. Real stories are written no matter what. All you do is churn out rubbish every November and claim you're making art while making a mockery of it all. You think you're building good habits whilst you do that? No, you are not. You are a fad. You do a rush job and think that's good enough! Oh, maybe you could do it once, of course, but once is enough. If it's terrible for one month, it won't get any better if you try again. But I suppose you'd rather make everyone else share your delusions, wouldn't you? You're profiting from selling hope to idiots, encouraging entirely the wrong sort of people…"

"Excuse me?"

That was a new voice, wasn't it? Yes, it was, but the Editor must still have a grip on Vicki's mind, because she couldn't for the life of her remember how the newcomer sounded.

"What are you doing here?" hissed the Editor.

Vicki turned her head, even though the Editor's perfectly manicured fingernails dug into her neck, and she saw him. A man who was clearly there, standing right in front of her, and yet she all she knew that he was human, and probably Asian. He was carrying a placard, upon it the words:

DO NOT READ THIS SIGN

The shock was enough for the Editor to release her grip, and for Vicki and Kevin to dart back into the air. There was one switch left, and their paws both slammed into it at the same time. There was a screech of feedback, and at last, Tildeworth.

"…so anyway, do you all want to hear my impression of an Inner Editor?" she was saying. "It's a very good one. And very funny. Let's see, it goes a little like this... Oh! Look at me! I'm an Inner Editor! Waaah, people are having fun and I don't like it! I'm going to be nasty and bitter and go on and on and on and on and on about people wasting their time, but I'm never going to do anything productive with mine! Because I reaaaally don't like it when people have fun and don't hurt anyone! I mean, like, that's the worst! Like, totally the worst! I don't like that at all! I'm mean and judgemental and my fashion sense is _awful!_ "

"Cedilla!" shouted Vicki.

"Voice Friend!" exclaimed Kevin, tail wagging. "And Can't Remember Friend!"

"Look, ma'am," said Mr Ian Woon, still holding his placard, "is there anything these nice people have done to hurt you today?"

The Editor perched like a bird on the very edge of the roof, but she was too well balanced to fall, because an Inner Editor was the personification of perfection. She was held back by both Tildeworth's voice and Mr Ian Woon's sign, but she wasn't giving up not yet. "Listen to her," she said, pointing to one of the speakers. "Does she really think directing a silly little rebellion over the radio is original?"

If Tildeworth knew what was being said in response to her words, she might have had a nice comeback. Instead, she kept talking. "Now listen to me! You may take my money! You may turn off my microphone! But you can't steal what you can't f- oh, wait."

"Did you hear that?" said the Editor. "Now she's quoting lyrics! How unoriginal! Next thing you know she'll be using them as titles!"

"Don't talk about my friends like that!" said Kevin, his wings bristling.

"Real stories don't need friends," hissed the Editor. "Real stories are crafted in solitude, word after perfect word."

"Yeah, well." Vicki's wings bristled too, her back arched, her tail puffed to twice its size. "You're a poopyhead."

"And I don't want to be your friend!" said Kevin.

"And I don't think I can argue with either of those statements," said Mr Ian Woon.

Only Tildeworth's voice broke the standoff. "But listen," she said, "I do have some important news for you. If anyone is near my old station, then please, please, do all you can to secure it. I promise, this has nothing to do with room 7a, or my pen, or even the possibility of obtaining a decent cup of tea. Those would be nice, but the vending machines never gave good tea anyway. Oh, how I have tried to procure the perfect cup of tea, but they can simply never manage it! It is always a little right, and yet not so, and that small hint of... not teaness, that ten percent that is not quite there, it overwhelms and ruins the whole experience, and..."

In one fluid motion, the Editor slipped back into the form of a hooded robe with no wearer, hovered by the edge for a moment, and looped over itself on its way to the ground.

"Somehow I'm not sure that was a miraculous surrender, there," said Vicki. "Look, we'd better get a move on, all of us. Thanks for helping, Mr Ian Woon."

"My pleasure," said Mr Ian Woon.

Kevin, meanwhile, was puzzled for an entirely different reason. "But... but I already read the sign!"

-

They had been walking for hours across empty wasteland, side by side, in silence.

Random had never seen anything like this in the November Gardens. If not for Tildeworth's words, she would have thought that this was the remains of Script Frenzy, or the outskirts of a novel, maybe even her own. Perhaps it was even part of the Nexus, for who knew what would happen if you walked on and on and on, for as long as you could? But none of those were good enough hiding places, Tildeworth had said.

The Gardens had protested, she said. But they relented, because Tildeworth hadn't thought she'd want to use it ever again. She just wanted to know it was there, like leaving a vanished person's room untouched.

The rest was a matter of time. Walk long enough, Tildeworth had ensured them, and they would make it out into the square.

At least the Shovel was quiet again, returning to its dull thoughts at the back of her mind. That was good. It gave her time to think of what she could do with it.

The first trees she saw, the first indication that she was in a park instead of some alien landscape that life and warmth had never touched, were short, sparse, thin things. But they took root nevertheless in the rock and ice, and in time, they gave way to thicker, evergreen woods.

But it still didn't look like a park. When Random thought of a park, she thought of lawns and neatly trimmed hedges, of little ponds and tended flowerbeds. No lawn would ever grow on that tangled forest floor, and no ducks would paddle their way across those dark pools, even if the November Gardens were any good at ducks to begin with. Flowers were right out of the question. This was not a nice forest. This was the forest where the big bad wolf prowled, and where wicked witches did things that got cut out of the more conventional bedtime fairy tales, and there were no convenient woodcutters nearby to lend a hand.

There was still a trail, the tiniest of marks perhaps left by a scurrying animal trying not to be eaten. Nevertheless, Random and Pilcrowe followed it, Pilcrowe using the giant pencil to push branches out of the way and clear space, while the halo still dangling from Random's helmet gave a little light in the murk. Vines tripped, brambles scratched, and it seemed that the more they tried to fight their way out, the more the Gardens resisted, Pilcrowe tried telling it they were there for a good reason, but it didn't give any sign of reply. The Gardens were afraid, and defending themselves the only way they knew how.

Random didn't want to think of how easy it might be if all she did was to lift the Shovel and clear their path.

"You would not happen to have any knowledge of navigating via the stars?" said Pilcrowe.

Random looked up. "Not really," she said. In any case, there were no constellations around here that she knew, and she had seen plenty of them in multiple worlds by now. "Why, you think we've passed that rock before?"

"I am not intimately familiar with rocks, but the possibility did arise."

"I could talk to you a bit about geology, but I don't think it's going to help. Mayne we should have marked it." She pondered sitting on the rock in question while she had a think about it, but decided against the idea. Nothing coated in that much moss and slime could be any use as a seat, even if its study might reveal multiple species new to science.

She wondered if the Shovel worked on rocks.

"Random," Pilcrowe said, gripping her shoulder. "Listen."

"Don't hear anything."

"I do."

Pilcrowe's fingers were tight around her shoulder as Random strained to hear, but the detective's hearing was far better than hers, and for her there was nothing but the wind in the black canopy overhead, or the plop of something unknown sliding into dark water. Then a footstep, in the dark. Voices, too far away to discern, but coming closer every second.

_If that's an Editor,_ she thought, _then all restraints be buggered, they're getting a shovel to the head._

Something burst from the trees.

It probably wasn't an Inner Editor. Random wasn't prepared to dismiss the possibility of an editor strain that would latch onto its victims face, but it probably wouldn't proclaim itself to be their new best friend in the process.

"Random, there appears to be a beagle on your head," said Pilcrowe.

"Yeah, thanks for the deduction," said Random, stepping back to see what it was that had just attacked her with friendship. In the halo's light, she could see a creature hovering at eye level on broad tricoloured wings, its face split in a happy dog's grin. Another followed, also winged but this time a cat. Thankfully for Random, who was wiping beagle slobber from her face with her sleeve, this newcomer was less interested in making connections.

"Vicki Smith?" said Pilcrowe.

"Hello, Susan," said the cat. To both of them: "This is Kevin." And to Random: "You're the scientist Cedilla sent?"

"Yeah, that's me," Random said. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," said Vicki. She looked over her shoulder. "Mr Ian Woon! We've found them!"

"Mr Ian Woon is here?" said Random. But sure enough there he was, holding a torch in one hand that gave a faint, bobbing light, and in the other, a placard instructing any reader to not read it. It had to be Mr Ian Woon. Random didn't know who else it could be, not least of which when she didn't know what he even looked like. "You're safe?" he said, but Random had no memory of what he might have sounded like, because he could have sounded like anyone. "Come on, we need you, quick. Tildeworth called us and said you were needed at-"

"The station, we know," said Pilcrowe. "And whilst I don't approve of this plan, you are clearly who you say you are, so if you know the way out of here, we'd like to see it."

The group set off through the trail that Vicki, Kevin, and Mr Ian Woon had laid out, until they walked over broader, gravel lined paths, and stood under unfamiliar stars by the gate that led out into the Nexus.

Random wondered how long it had been since that morning when she'd woken up in an unfamiliar bed and been witness to the only shovel murder that nobody was sorry about. That was the thing about stories. So much could happen in so few words, and considerations like sleep got left to one side, unless they were suitably dramatic. But that was okay. Forgoing sleep was one of the grand traditions of NaNoWriMo, and surely any grand tradition was useful for repelling Editors.

For example, the one standing by the door, pen in hand, blocking the way into the square and peering at them through thin rimmed glasses.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but this area is barred."

"On whose authority?" said Pilcrowe.

"It does not matter upon whose authority it is barred," said the Editor. "The point is that it is. There is no argument. Those are simply the rules. No flying pets, no people without readily discernible facial features, no know it alls, and no scientists who don't follow basic safety procedures."

"What?" said Random.

"Surely you see what a fire hazard all that hair is?"

"Oh," Random patted her curls, but they sprang back up again. The Editor did have a point, but buggered if she was going to tell him that. "Never been a problem so far."

"This is all nonsense, anyway," said the Editor. "I suggest you all turn back the way you came."

"We suggest we do not," said Pilcrowe, who was now brandishing the giant pencil, while Mr Ian Woon was holding his paradoxical sign right in the Editor's line of sight.

"Oh, don't shove that nonsense in my face," sneered the Editor. "Have you not been reading the headlines lately? I direct your attention to the one about how nobody gives a f*** about how your novel is going. It's quite informative, and should give you all the sense of perspective you so desperately need."

The Editor's ability to pronounce a row of asterisks was quite impressive, but Random's fingers curled around the Shovel's handle. He was outnumbered. Maybe she wouldn't have to use it.

"Yeah, well," she said, "may I direct you to the one that reads 'I don't care what some miserable old sod thinks'?"

The Editor shouldered his way through Pilcrowe and Mr Ian Woon as if they were not there, and flung Vicki and Kevin aside. "Don't try to stop me!" he said. "I have years upon years of experience in crafting the perfect lines, word by word, with none of that drivel you call a story!"

"Really?" said Random. "I have a shovel."

The Editor went pale.

Random tried to swing at the Editor, but she was too close to reach without accidentally hitting one of her friends. But it was enough, and the Editor fled back through the door. "Quick, get through!" yelled Pilcrowe, and they all ran into the Nexus, to find the Editor standing in front of them, watching.

His form rippled and he dissolved into grey, hooded robe. Random raised the Shovel again, but it was too late. In an instant he was through the doors, just before they slammed shut.

"Crap," said Random.

"Mr Ian Woon," hissed Pilcrowe, "how fast can those things move?"

"At the speed of doubt," said Mr Ian Woon.

"Then let's not waste any more time," said Pilcrowe. "Follow me. I know where the station is."

_You were no help at all,_ thought Random, to the shovel in her hand, its tip trailing against the ground as she walked. But Pilcrowe was right. Nothing could be gained by standing around talking.

She had wondered if it would be morning yet in the Nexus, but it was not. Nor was it full day, or night as it had been in the gardens. There was light, but it was grey and washed out, and it emanated from a sky with no sun and no moon.

There were no Editors now, just wind and dust billowing across the square. But the Nexus wasn't dead. The square was lifeless, but speakers hung from every building, and from each one, Tildeworth's voice echoed.

"...the words of a song may be compared to the pages of a book, which might then be contained within the tune, or cover. One might then, with sufficient skill in bookbinding, remove the pages, or words, and insert them into a new tune, or cover, although why you would want to do that is beyond me, given that not only would it be a _dreadful_ thing to do to a book, but it would also be a _terrible_ idea because you would invite the wrath of a librarian, and nobody wants that. It would also be rather confusing for anyone who wanted to read the book. Speaking of terrible and confusing ideas…"

"Speaking of terrible ideas, answer your phone!" snapped Pilcrowe, holding hers to her ear. "No good. Too many people trying to call, I expect."

"At least she's still talking," said Random.

"But I don't think she knows what's coming for her."

"It's one Editor," said Random. "She can handle one Editor."

"You had better be right," said Pilcrowe.

The sound of Tildeworth's voice drowned out much of the ambient noise, so it was a while before Random could hear anything else. The first signs of life were a distant buzz, the sound of many voices raised as one, shouting and protesting. By the time they drew closer, it was clear there was a large crowd, and when the group turned a corner onto the last street leading to the station, they were met by a sea of backs, people jostling to get through, shouting and yelling at some distant, unseen foe.

"Excuse me!" Random said. "What's going on? We need to get through!" But nobody heard, or if they did, they were more interested in pushing into their own space. Random stood on tiptoes, but she wasn't tall enough to see over the crowd, and from the looks of things, neither were Pilcrowe or Mr Ian Woon. Well, Mr Ian Woon probably wasn't tall enough, anyway. It was a bit hard to tell.

Vicki and Kevin, though, were unhindered by such things, and took to the air to get a better view. "It's busy," said Vicki. "Looks like it goes all the way to the station. If you want to get through, you'd better start moving."

"Can we make it through in time?" said Pilcrowe.

But Random had seen the empty buildings on either side, and an idea formed. "Come on, let's all get a good spot." she said.

If she was right, Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners backed onto the minor plaza that fronted the station. She made it to the front only to find that all the lights were off, and a sign in the window read "Out Selling Free Shrimp Dinners To Angry Mob." It had been shakily handwritten, by someone who was not only in a hurry but was holding the pen with pincers, but that didn't matter. What did matter was the lock.

Pilcrowe solved that problem. She steadied herself, delivered a sturdy kick to the door, and it slammed open, hanging in the breeze.

"Do you think we should pay for that?" said Mr Ian Woon.

"I'm sure he'll understand," said Random, as she ran inside. Mr Ian Woon was probably right - it was Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners, not Bob's House of Free Doors. But that was something to worry about later. She ran through the darkened restaurant, past the table where she and Neo had shared their last free shrimp dinner before getting the role that had thrown her into all this to begin with, and up the stairs, as the others followed.

Bob had a small office on the upper floors. He didn't have a computer, because presumably it was even harder to type with pincers than it was to handwrite, but there were enough papers lying about to fulfil the Luddite Clause several times over. Somewhere in them was the secret to a free lunch, at least as long as it was shrimp, but Random overcame her curiosity and stared out of the window, as the others followed to join her.

"Sweet zombie BattleJesus," she whispered.

The NaNo Video studio was obscured by a whole host of characters - people, animals, dares, and all matter of fictional creatures. There were characters holding signs that demanded citations, or the downfall of This Sort Of Thing, people singing, people throwing stones, people setting up tents. But not one of them could make it into the studio. The perimeter was held by row upon row of stern faced Editors holding red pens and clipboards, while the upper levels were guarded by their silent, drifting, cloaked forms.

"They knew we were going to try taking the studio for you," said Mr Ian Woon. "She told us all to hold it, but of course, they were listening too."

"I'm sorry," said Vicki, ears held low and tail drooping as she hovered. "It was our idea to set up the speakers."

"It was my idea!" whined Kevin. "I had a bad idea. I do not like it when I have bad ideas!"

"Not your fault," muttered Pilcrowe, who had turned away from the window and was now tapping on her phone. "Would have been worse without them."

"That means we have to get creative," said Random. "Hey, Vicki, Kevin, you think you could fly us in?"

"No," said Vicki. "I'd love to, but we just can't lift you, and our flight ceiling isn't high enough."

"There's a ceiling out there?" said Kevin. "I do not see a ceiling. Is it invisible?"

"Okay, there has to be something..." Random said.

"You'd have to go in via the roof," said Pilcrowe. "You could get a hatch and go down inside. It would just be a matter of getting on to the roof in the first place."

"Yeah. Anyone know any dragons? Or helicopter pilots? Or draconic helicopter pilots?" Random paced up and down, scratching an itch under the plastic helmet.

An idea sparked, deep in her mind.

"Mr Ian Woon?"

"Yes?" he said.

"You're the president of the Trebuchet Club, aren't you?"


	19. Frequent Flier

_Go outside and shake your fist at the heavens and proclaim that you are a fierce warrior of the written word, a conqueror of subplots and misbehaving characters! - No Plot? No Problem!_   
  


_It's okay,_ thought Random. _It's not as if I don't have a helmet._

seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, sitting in a human sized trebuchet sling, poised on top of Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners, it wasn't the same. On the other hand, it was the only one she had, and she could hardly back down now when Mr Ian Woon had put the whole thing together out of his own goodness.

"Are you ready?" said Mr Ian Woon. His paradoxical placard was on the ground beside him, as he poised to wind the trebuchet up.

"No," said Random, "but since I won't ever be, you may as well get started. One thing, though?"

"What would that be?" said Pilcrowe.

"Do you need to come with me? I know this is all about you."

"Someone's got to stay here and keep an eye on Cedilla." This far above, it was near impossible to make out Tildeworth's voice over the wind and the crowd's relentless, merged voices. "I'll do what you ask of me, but I don't know if I have it in me to go inside."

"That's okay," said Random. "Can you do one thing, though?"

"Tell me."

"Get everyone away. If what I'm thinking of is going to work, I think the words 'blast radius' are going to be appropriate."

She'd been expecting a protest from Pilcrowe, but all she did was nod. "I will."

Mr Ian Woon set about winding the trebuchet, and Random heard the timbers groan. "Well, here we go." She held the Shovel tight against her chest. "Cue dramatic music."

Maybe things would have worked out if she just catapulted the Shovel and nothing else? But just as she had that thought, the counterweight fell, and she was sailing through the air.

The world, as it always did during a suitably dramatic moment, took on a slow motion quality, and she saw people down below, most trying to break through the Editor line, but one or two looking up as she flew overhead.

Her calculations were right. The Shovel hit the roof first, and then she landed in a heap beside it, taking a moment to catch her breath. She was face down on black rooftop, huddled under the looming skeletal framework of the transmission tower. The first thing she did was to snatch up the Shovel, and examine where it had fallen. A few cracks radiated from the site, but not enough to cause any real damage.

She resisted the urge to peer out over the edge at the crowd or look for her friends. The whole building was swarming with Editors, and the safest place now was inside.

At least, she hoped it was inside. But as long as she held the Travelling Shovel of Death she had a weapon, and that was enough.

There was a maintenance door which led into a staircase descending into to the main building. She found herself in a plain corridor lit by strip lights and covered in tiles, nothing that would have looked out of place in an everyday office building. But it was calm here, and quiet, with none of the whispering doubts that always crept into her head when an Editor was near, so she had time to think. She tried tapping the Shovel on the tiles. It didn't make any difference, but Tildeworth had been sure.

What if there was a place, somewhere she needed to be to destroy it? Slamming it into the floor in a back office corridor didn't seem like the sort of end that befitted the Travelling Shovel of Death.

Then what about the studio?

Yes, that would do. And not at all because she'd always wanted to see the place where the Tildeworth Hour was filmed, definitely not.

Thankfully the building was well signposted, so Random could easily find her way through the twists and turns. A faint cool breeze still emanated from the ventilation shafts. She saw papers laid on desks, half eaten food left out, computers still running, with their screens waiting for the next command. There were a lot more passages and corridors and little offices than could reasonably fit inside the station building, but after her experiences in the library and the November Gardens, it would have been a lot stranger if the interior and exterior actually matched.

When she came across the missing ceiling tile signposted NINJA EXIT, it was exactly the nonsense she'd been looking for. She was a scientist walking through an abandoned television studio whilst carrying a deadly weapon in the form of a gardening implement, and also wearing a plastic Viking helmet with a faintly glowing halo danging from one of its anachronistic horns. There was no was she could take this mission seriously whatsoever, except that she had promised herself she would take it very seriously indeed.

At last she stood outside the studio doors.

"Hello?" she said, more to hear the sound of her own voice than anything else. Her grip tightened around the Shovel. "Is anyone there?"

"You!" called a voice, from the other side of the door. "It's you, isn't it? The scientist, and… and… you have the Shovel, don't you? Who are you, that you can touch it?"

_Good question,_ thought Random, who had no idea herself and was going to do some serious testing if she made it out of here intact. Rob had been waiting. He must have known they'd try this place.

"I'm just this person, you know?" said Random, She wasn't going to open the door until she had the shaking under control. "Had a few names, I'm not sure which one you're looking for? There's some people, a while back, called me the Scientist With Red Hair, or maybe the Scientist With the Missing Eyebrow. You might call me the Bane of Librarians, with what they must be thinking of me these days. Someone once said I was the answer to the question 'what's Scottish and gives you nightmares?' and I guess I'm the answer to a few other questions as well, but nobody knows what they are. That enough for you?"

"And the bearer of the Travelling Shovel of Death," said Rob, from behind the door. "This is silly. We shouldn't be fighting one another. You're not my enemy, even if you did have the misfortune to be working with Pilcrowe. I take it she is not here?"

"No."

"Hmm, I did not think so. Sending you to do her work. You may as well come in. There's nobody here but me, and I'm not interested in killing you. It is as you said. If I killed you, you would only come back later. There's only one of us here with a true deadly weapon."

"You want to talk?"

"I don't see what else we can do."

She nudged the door open, taking care to keep the Shovel between her and the gap.

It was a surreal moment, seeing the studio from this angle. There was Tildeworth's chair, and the glossy floor, and the little potted plants, and the rows upon rows of seats facing the set. But the seats were empty, and the plants were strewn over the floor, and one of the cameras had fallen on its side.

Rob had taken Tildeworth's chair, lounging in it with his legs draped over the side. "See?" he said, holding his hands out. "No guns this time! Just you, and me, and… that!"

"What do you want?"

"That Shovel…" Rob said, adopting a more conventional posture. "You don't have any idea how it works, do you?"

"No," Random admitted, "But that's okay. I can find out." And find out soon, she hoped, There was no room for proper scientific rigour here, but she was a fictional scientist, and she could fudge things all she wanted. The trick was to fudge them in just the right way…

What was so special about this place? Tildeworth had spent enough time here that maybe it was infused with her own sense of self. That was how Personifications worked, wasn't it? That was why Pilcrowe had been so reluctant.

"It's very powerful," Rob went on, now sitting in a crouch with his fingers clasped and his chin propped up on them. "But you knew that. How powerful do you think it is?"

"Enough to subjugate an Editor, I know that," said Random. She shrugged. "But there's plenty can do that. It's all about-"

"Believing in yourself, I know, I know. I've done the same, plenty of times. But now the Shovel is more powerful than ever. You've noticed it can-"

"Rally Editors to your side, I know."

"Why am I bothering? You know what it does. You know what it's capable of. You could have anything you wanted, not just Editors."

"Couldn't get you your novel back, though," said Random.

"Hardly matters."

"You know it's finished, right? Pilcrowe did that. That's how we got out."

"It doesn't matter. I could have more. So could you. Think about it, Red. The Shovel obviously likes you. What do you want?"

There were a lot of things Random wanted. Some of them had been bad ideas, in hindsight, like thing about becoming a pirate. Some of them… she still did want to be a main character, someday, if she was honest with herself. Even seeing what happened to the novels that didn't make it hadn't quenched that flame.

"Are you thinking about it?" he said. He must have noticed the way she rubbed her fingers on the handle, feeing its pitted black iron surface.

"Yeah," she said.

"And?"

She shrugged again. "Don't really want it."

"Then give it to me!" Now he was sitting bolt upright, his fingers digging into the soft upholstery, as if he were about to spring to his feet any second now.

"Why'd I want to do that?"

"You don't want it any more!" He leapt to his feet as he spoke. "You just said so! If you aren't going to keep it, I should! It can't go roaming around!" He walked forward, holding out his hands. She stepped back, and circled him. They were locked into a slow, wary dance, like predator and prey sizing one another up.

"Who said anything about letting it roam?" Random said.

"You'd let it go to waste?"

"I told you I didn't want it." The right spot had to be here somewhere, but how was she going to know what it was? All she could do was stall. "Sorry to ruin all your hard work."

"It was a lot of work," he said. "Years and years of tracking its movements, understanding its mind… Oh yes, it has a mind, even if it isn't a mind you or I would know. Haven't you heard it? Haven't you listened as it whispers its knowledge in the dark?"

"Yeah. It gets kind of boring after a while."

"Then you haven't really listened! Don't you see how much it wants to do its duty? I was doing it a favour!"

"Wouldn't mind knowing how you did it," Random said. "Scientifically speaking, that is."

"Ah, so you do listen to it?"

It wasn't a total lie. A scientist is always curious. "Yes," she whispered. "Tell me about the Travelling Shovel of Death."

His face split into a grin. He was barely standing upright anymore - instead he was hunched, like a predator ready to spring on its enemies. "Good, good. Then you know of its story, its powers, how it has always longed for our blood…"

"For blood, yes," hissed Random. "For power and for glory."

"Yes, yes, now you know!"

" _All hail the Travelling Shovel of Death!_ " Random screamed, throwing back her head.

"You know, now, don't you?" His hands reached out, grasping for the iron. "You know. Now listen to me, slave to the Shovel, girl of many names, listen…."

He drew closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her face, and their circling ground to a halt.

"I am listening," she whispered, and the world slowed, and she could see everything in the finest of details.

And that was when she knew that it was not the right place she needed, but the right time. That moment when the narrative sang, and the tension hung heavy, and anything could happen.

"And by the way," she said, "my name is Random Idea Number Forty Two."

She backed off and swung the Shovel. He ducked, but she did not aim to hit him. Just as she had in the bar, she slammed its point into the floor, placed one foot on the blade, and pushed.

Points of vivid light spread into cracks, twisting and extending over the studio floor like the growth of some strange and luminescent plant sped up on film. The floor under her feet rocked and shuddered from side to side like an earthquake. The cracks widened, leaving her standing and waving her arms for balance.

Rob the Rat reached forward, fingers clasped around the Shovel's handle. He laughed, a wordless cry of terrible joy just before he fell, clutching the Shovel close to his chest and never, ever, letting go.

-

…in a far away radio station, in a place where the normal dimensions of time and space had given up and gone home, a host, talking through her exhaustion on coffee and sheer bloody mindedness, clutched her chest…

-

Time snapped back, and Random ran. The studio was collapsing all around her, splitting in half with the force of the Shovel. The floor gave way underneath her, and she too fell into the light.


	20. No Plot, No Problem

_You're not done until 11:59 p.m. on the 30th. You are a champion, not a quitter, and every word is another victory. - No Plot? No Problem!_   
  


And then a hand snatched her up from the brink and pulled her back over the edge, and she found herself looking into Pilcrowe's eyes.

"Never needlessly risk your life for people again!" she snapped. "I don't care how dramatic it looks!"

Random blinked, and realised it was not light that irritated her eyes now, but dust. "How did you get past the Editors?"

Pilcrowe helped her to her feet. "Did you really think I cared so little about you that I'd let those pen pushers stop me? Besides, I had just completed a novel. It occurred to me that I can do what I want."

Random rubbed the dust from her eyes with one hand and leaned on Pilcrowe's shoulder with the other. For the first time, she saw what had happened. "Whoa."

The building had been split in half down the middle of the studio, pink insulation handing out like torn guts. The light was gone. In front, empty air and the streets of the Nexus below. Though many faces looked up at them from the streets, not a single one was an Editor, and they stood under a bright and pale November sky.

"Studio went away," she said.

She didn't know what else to say, so Pilcrowe picked up the giant pencil, which had been propped in a corner, and led her downstairs through what was left of the station. "We got everyone out in time," she said, as they descended. "I had Vicki and Kevin spread the word that Mr Ian Woon was doing an autograph session. I wouldn't want to have his wrists after today, but he did volunteer."

"What about Tildeworth?"

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

When they finally stepped outside, it was through a shattered door. Even the front entrance had been ripped in half, right down to the rainbow NaNo Video sign overhead with its wires protruding and lights dimmed.

There was already a crowd of people waiting. Either they'd already procured one of Mr Ian Woon's autographs, or they thought this was more interesting. "Er, hi," said Random. "Look, I don't think we've really got the facilities to do any interviews right now, but…"

Thankfully, Pilcrowe could handle things better. "Stop bothering the lady," she said. "Don't you all have novels to go to?"

They found Vicki and Kevin in the upstairs office of Bob's House of Free Shrimp Dinners, and once again, Pilcrowe demonstrated that her hearing was better than Random's, when she smiled at a sound Random could not hear.

As they walked up the stairs, Tildeworth's voice resolved into words, coming from a little portable radio perched on the desk. Kevin looked especially pleased with himself.

"…and I assume from the sudden flood of text messages that Mr Ian Woon is having a free for all autograph session. Good on him! Also that it appears we defeated the Inner Editors, although… oh. Oh dear. Well, I'm sure we can live with that, and construction workers do exist for a reason. Good news for everyone, unless you are an Inner Editor, but even I can't be charitable all the time. And I have even more good news! Do you remember my lucky pen, you know, the one I left in room 7a? It was here all along! And what a good thing too. It came in very handy for fending off that nasty grey visitor I had just now. Anyway…"

"Do you think we should go and tell her she can stop now?" said Random. Now the sun was up, now it really was morning, she could feel the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, but it was just another walk across a hopefully more co-operative November Gardens.

"Probably," said Pilcrowe. Her hand rested with a gentle touch on the radio.

"Let's go see Voice Friend!" said Kevin.

"You go. I think I'd better tell Mr Ian Woon he can stop now," said Vicki, taking to the air. "Someone has to." And with that she was gone, wings spread and soaring out of the window.

The three remaining characters descended back onto the street, where already a sizable crowd was gathering to stare at the devastation. They left them to it. Some people didn't have anything better to do.

It was while they were on the walk back to the square that Pilcrowe froze. "Don't move, any of you."

"What now?" said Random. But she was answered when someone stepped into the street before them, a woman with a long and elegant dress, and yet others that Random remembered from Pilcrowe's novel.

"Any reason you're still here?" said Pilcrowe.

"Well…" said the woman.

"Is it because, after Rob the Rat fell into a gleaming light filled void, along with the Travelling Shovel of Death, and the Inner Editors have all gone now, your plans don't amount to a whole lot any more?" Pilcrowe's fingers tapped on the giant pencil.

"Yes?"

"And that you might be regretting things a little, because, if we are all honest, when a man is wielding a permanent lethal weapon, you tend to listen to what he says? And that perhaps, you are wondering where to go next?"

The assembled abandoned characters nodded.

"Well, we're a little busy right now," Pilcrowe said. "Kevin Jones?"

"Yes?" Kevin said, his tail wagging faster than his wings could flap as he hovered in place.

Pilcrowe jerked her thumb at the characters. "These people are your new best friends."

-

The rest of the journey was less eventful. The Gardens had let out their own sigh of relief, and were back to the lawns and paths of before. There still weren't any ducks, and the trail led through trees that thinned to a rocky and icy wasteland, but it let them pass.

Pilcrowe punched in the code that Tildeworth had given them should they need to return (U00B6), and the doors opened again. The speakers were silent.

No, not quite silent. There was something there, dead air interspersed with breathing. Pilcrowe picked up pace as she ran up the stairs, Random and Vicki struggling to keep up.

When they burst into the booth, Tildeworth was slumped over the desk, a pink patterned fountain pen clutched on one hand. She was still a little luminescent, but fading fast.

"Cedilla!" exclaimed Pilcrowe, immediately rushing to her side. "Random, get over here!" She shook Tildeworth, who responded with a barely aware groan, and waved her free hand in the air to ward them off.

"I'm a scientist, not a doctor," said Random. "But I think she's just asleep."

"…g'way…" murmured Tildeworth.

"I'll take that as a yes," said Pilcrowe. "Come on. There have to be more comfortable places than this."

She hauled Tildeworth (still holding the pen) out of the booth, and Random was left alone.

The microphone was still there. Was it still on?

"Uh, hello?" she said. She settled into Tildeworth's chair. "I don't know if this thing is still on. I'm a scientist, you see, so I don't know what any of these switches and lights do. I'd like to touch one to see what it does, but I don't think Tildeworth would like it if I did that. Okay. Er. Look, I think someone ought to be talking, just in case any of you were wondering what was going on?

"So. Um. We showed those Inner Editors, didn't we? And… wow, we're barely out of Week Two. No wonder all that happened! But… I guess if I was Tildeworth I'd talk to you about how that's a good thing, because Week Two is over now. I mean, you can all go and work on your novels now. That's really cool!

"I kind of had a few thoughts about winning, and not winning, but I don't really know if it's my place to tell them. I've never… not won. So I don't know if I should be talking?"

"Go ahead."

Random looked over her shoulder, to see Pilcrowe standing in the doorway.

"You're a terrible radio host," said the detective. "But you're the only thing we've got so you'd better keep going. If you say anything wrong, I'll make sure you know about it." She sat down next to Random.

"Okay, did you all hear that?" Random said. "I was thinking, you know? About getting our novels done. But… it's okay if you don't. It's okay not to win."

She looked over at Pilcrowe, who nodded at her to continue.

"We've always been saying that, haven't we? Right? I just think… well, I don't know about all of you, but I think maybe we should say it more… or maybe we say it enough, but I don't think we believe it enough? Um look, this really isn't my thing, but I went into one of those that didn't win, and it's a long story, but I saw all the locks on the door, and I wanted to smash them."

"There's no locks on the inside, only them that's on the inside of you," said Pilcrowe. "But she's right. You've got to do something about those locks all the same. Even if you don't win, there should be somewhere here for you."

"Yeah," said Random.

The lights were fading now. Whatever power Tildeworth had put into this place was fading along with her consciousness.

"Looks like we're low on power," said Pilcrowe.

"Did we say enough?" said Random.

"I hope so." Pilcrowe leaned closer, so as to be sure the microphone picked up her words. "Listen everyone. I don't have fancy words for you. But if you're all safe, and you're all doing what you can, then keep at it."

The lights were nearly gone now, just faint embers in the dark.

"That was goodnight from me," Pilcrowe said.

"And it's goodnight from her," said Random.

And that, at last, was the end of Wrimo Radio.

-

The hours ticked by. Morning faded into noon and afternoon and slipped into evening, but only colour and texture of the light that made it inside the break room reflected the time of day.

It wasn't a bad place to sleep. Random had fallen asleep almost immediately on one of the couches that circled the room, curled up under her white coat. Pilcrowe had taken off her own heavy tan coat and draped it over Tildeworth.

She sat down, next to Tildeworth, and waited. Sometimes she would look at her phone, or sit back with her eyes closed, on the border of sleep but never quite there. At one point she broke open the locks on some of the vending machines that Tildeworth's presence had briefly brought back to life, and was rewarded with coffee and a few cheap sandwiches. One could not survive on cut rate vending machine produce alone, but it certainly helped.

It was nearly evening when Tildeworth stirred, pushing herself upright from underneath the coat.

"Morning," said Pilcrowe. "Even though it is not."

Tildeworth opened her mouth, and said nothing. She paused for a second, held up one hand, and ran out of the room.

"Cedilla?" Pilcrowe had barely enough time to get out of her seat before Tildeworth was gone. She stepped out into the corridor, not sure if she should run after her, but as she was pondering things, Tildeworth reappeared with a notebook and pen. Not the lucky pink fountain pen, since that had given its life and a fair amount of ink in the service of NaNoWriMo's anti-Editor forces, but a cheap ballpoint. She let Pilcrowe see as she scribbled. In the gloom of the corridor, she could make out:

_Seems I've lost my voice. That is most annoying._

"You're okay, though, aren't you?"

The pen flew over the paper some more.

_Yes. It's a shame, but I suppose one has to move on some time, no matter how late._

"Yes. I believe we do." Pilcrowe snaked an arm around Tildeworth's back, resting her head on the smaller woman's shoulder. Tildeworth wrote on.

_Incidentally, do we have any tea? Come on. We ran out ages ago. This is turning into a terrible farce._

-

They left in the morning, after a night of sandwiches, coffee, and something that might have been tea, though Tildeworth insisted, in the most frantic handwriting she could manage, that it was most certainly not the real thing. Outside they crossed the boundary from torn streets to rocky plains as the sun's rays began to shine.

None of them spoke. Tildeworth wondered if they wanted to be polite, or if they simply didn't have anything to say. Even with the pen in her pocket and the notebook tucked into her pangolin scale breastplate, she too was at a loss for words.

But she was not at a loss for actions. She counted her steps, guessing at how far they had gone. When she was satisfied, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers.

In the distance there was a crash, and a cloud of dust.

Tildeworth didn't look back, even as Random and Pilcrowe jumped in shock. There was a protocol to be followed in such events. Never flinch, keep on walking, and definitely don't look back at that really cool explosion.

-

_A few days later…_

Tildeworth sat outside the NaNo Video studios, enjoying one of the milder of the autumnal days' sun with a cup of tea in her hands. Real tea, not the crap that you got from a vending machine. She would have done something about those, but even her powers only extended so far.

People had been very quick to offer help after the studio's destruction, but, touched as she was, there were plenty of other deserving people. For now, she was content to let everyone else return to their novels while the building work got underway.

It had been Vicki who recommended the builders to her, so Tildeworth had not been surprised when they turned out to be cats. It turned out that even if they didn't have wings, cats were natural repair people. If you really needed repair work done on a dimensionally transcendent television studio that had been blown in two, you called someone with excellent climbing skills. It wasn't always as easy to get them down once they were up there, but an open tin of tuna on the ground usually helped. Besides it meant to got to keep all the tea for herself.

She was watching one of them now, a little black and white fellow carrying a giant golden hammer in his mouth, when a small red van pulled up outside of the station. Out popped another black and white cat, this time holding a large dark blue envelope, which he passed over to Tildeworth. Even if she was still unable to say thanks (her voice would recover soon enough, so said all the best doctors in the Nexus, and you knew they were good because they were all massive jerks) a stroke and scratch behind the post-cat's ears said it all.

She turned her attention to the envelope as the van drove away. The front was addressed to her, the back bore the return name of simply _Marni Woon._ She and Brevewin had reappeared after the business with the Editors. Nobody knew where they had been or what had happened, least of all themselves, but Tildeworth hadn't been surprised. It took a lot more than a few miserable grey buggers to take out a Personification. At least, so she had hoped.

She slid open the envelope, and braced herself as she caught a glimpse of the massive spaces inside. There was a handle poking out of the top, and she held it with one hand whilst holding the envelope with the other. In a topologically impossible move, she found herself pulling the Travelling Shovel of Death from its sleeve.

Of course it could never really go away, could it? Even if the original Shovel was lost, there would always be another on to forge. This Shovel was lighter, its black iron surface fresh and unscarred, ready to kill… but not for good, not this time.

She held it for a moment, admiring its form before, with a puff of dust, it faded from her hands to do the job it had been forged for.

Today wasn't a bad day, then. They never were, in the end. She took out her phone and began typing.

_Dear readers, some of you may be interested to know…_

-

Pilcrowe would never dream of giving up her detective agency at 4291 Shady Street. Despite everything that had happened, that place had a lot of memories attached to it, and if she was honest with herself, she was not the best person to be helping out lost characters.

But she could still have ideas. "I had thought of somewhere people could go, to ask for advice?"

"Maybe," said the woman in the elegant dress. "But it lacks a certain something. There needs to be warmth. Somewhere you want to go, not somewhere where you pull out a ticket and wait to be seen."

So they talked on, and reached a consensus. A little later, they reached one on the name.

"Club I Hate Myself And Want To Die?" said the woman in the elegant dress. "No, that simply won't do."

"It's historical," said Pilcrowe. "You know that as much as I do."

"At least trim it down a little!"

And now that the bar was ready, with little lamps fitted with warmly coloured glass shades, and the ribbon was strung up outside. There were thousands of locks yet to break. Yet a small crowd waited outside now, people she didn't know, people who had never seen the Nexus in years. The word would spread.

"I'm not one for speeches," she said, "but I'm told there has to be one. You've come a long way. You probably all want a drink. Well, you can have one. I proclaim Club IHMAWTD open." She held out her hand, and the women in the elegant dress passed over a pair of scissors. Pilcrowe began to cut, and they sliced about halfway through.

"With blunt scissors," she added.

They'd get there in the end. That was the important thing.

-

A long way from the Nexus, in a desert town with no name, a long figure strode down the main street in the light of the setting sun.

She was unarmed. Once, she had carried a potent weapon, but she had cast it aside. It had been too dangerous to wield, too dangerous to be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Besides, the damn thing had been heavy.

Two people waited at the end of the street, where the town gave way to empty wastelands and a road, one last trace of humanity that sliced through the desert on its unerring course toward the horizon. One of them turned at the sound of her footsteps, and tapped the other on the back.

"You?" said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "We didn't think you were coming back!"

"A few moments back there, I was pretty sure I wouldn't," said Random. "I hope it's okay, only after everything Neo went through to get me here in the first place…"

"If you weren't welcome," said the Scientist With the Moustache, "I'd be ashamed of myself."

"So what's happening now?" said Random, joining her old co-stars on their evening vigil.

"Out there," said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot, "a battle for the fate of humanity is waging. Out there, two brave men are struggling to get the cure we formulated to those who need it the most. The future of civilisation is at stake, and we…"

"We wait," said the Scientist With The Moustache. "Plot's going along, nice and steady. But we don't know how it's going to end, not yet."

"Until then, we wing it?" said Random.

"Yeah," said the Scientist Who Likes Robots An Awful Lot. "We wing it."

Random watched the desert sun sink closer to that distant road. "It's like they say," she said. "No plot, no problem."


End file.
